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ONE FALSE. 

BOTH FAIR 


itored at the Post Office, N. T., m seccnd-cle^s mtifr. 
Copyright, i««8, by John W. Lovbxa, Co. 


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George 20 

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ander, Parti. . 16 

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eb. M-argaret and hgr Bridesmaids. .20 

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70. The Berber, by W E. Myo 20 

71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. . . 10 

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81. Zanoni, by Lord Lytton 20 

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83. The Right and Wrong Uses of 

the Bible, R, Heber Newton. . .20 

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LordDufferin • go 

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101 E- L. Bynner, P t 11.15 

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104. Lady'Audley’s Secret, by Miss' 

. M E. Braddon 20 

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Wanda, by Ouida, Part II 16 



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The Right and Wrong 
Uses of the Bible ! 

Many important, and, to reverent minds, serious questions 
are discussed by tlie Rev. R. Heber Newton, in his now 
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Lovell’s Library, 

Bearing the title of 

“THE EIGHT AND WEONG USES OF THE 
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For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage paid 
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JOJIW W. LOVELL CO., 


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ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR; 

Or, a hard knot. 


'J 




JOHN B. HARWOOD. 




NEW YORK : 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 
14 & 16 Vesey Street, 


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k • 


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ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR; 


Or, A HARD KNOT. 


CHAPTER I. 

COMING HOME. 

“ She is pleasing, certainly, but — strange. Perhaps mys- 
terious would be the better word. In Egypt they called her 
the Sphinx, you know ; and indeed there is something singular, 
and almost startling, in that quiet, ghostly way she has of glid- 
ing into the midst of people who believe her to be a hundred 
miles oif. She talks well ; but I always feel afterwards a vague 
sense of perplexity, as though I had been conversing with one 
whose habits and experiences, and ideas of right and wrong, 
were enigmas to me.’ 

“ Yes ; there is something strange about Countess Louise, 
to our English taste, perhaps ; but I am sure she is well-bred, 
and clever and agreeable, and means to be kind ; and then — 
she has been everywhere, and knows every one. I find her 
a pleasant travelling acquaintance, Clare, love, and that is all. 
Once in England, we "shall part company, of course. You are 
not very likely to see much of her at Castel Vawr, or at Leo- 
minster House either, when you are in London.” 

The speakers were two slender, fair-haired girls, dressed 
in black, who stood side by side on the poop-deck of a great 
steamer, speeding swiftly on through the pale gloom of the 
warm night, a starry sky above, and the dusky purple wave- 
lets of the Mediterranean rippling with soft plash, as if caress- 
ingly, against the vessel’s side. There had been a broad white 
awning spread, as usual, over the after-deck, sacred to chief- 


4 


ONE EALSE, BOTH EATR. 


cabin passengers ; but, as usual also, it had been deftly re- 
moved, when night fell, by the supple brown hands of those 
lithe, tiger-footed, tiger-eyed Lascars who form the majority of 
the crew on board of our fast-steaming Peninsular and Oriental 
packets, such as was the Cyprus^ homeward-bound. 

There was something majestic, something almost oppressive 
too, in the solemn stillness that prevailed, not a sound being 
heard save the wash of the dark-blue water, as the powerful 
engines forced the ship along ; and the low hum of conversa- 
tion that arose from a group collected near the cabin hatchway, 
some few paces distant from where stood the two girls, in their 
mourning garb, apart from the rest. These two were silqnt 
now ; one of the sisters — for such they evidently were — look- 
ing down over the vessel’s side, towards where the softly mur- 
muring sea was dappled here and there by faint phosphores- 
cent gleams ; while the other turned her beautiful face towards 
the East, unconsciously as it seemed, and gazed with sad eyes 
along the streak of glistening foam that marked the steamer’s 
wake. 

A light yet hesitating footfall on the deck, the rustle of 
female dress, and then, in a low voice, the commonplace words : 
“ Your ladyship ! Tea is ready.” It needed not the muslin 
apron, the trim waist, and punctilious neatness of attire, to in- 
dicate the caste of her who uttered this little crisply spoken 
speech. Only a lady’s-maid drilled and schooled from her 
teens into the traditions of the stillroom, could have contrived 
to be at once so meekly suggestive and so softly audible. 

“Very well, Pinnett ; you can take the shawls,” answered 
one of the sisters. 

“ Yes, my lady,” was the quiet reply; and the maid retired 
as gently as she had approached. 

After a brief pause, the two girlish figures moved towards 
the cabin-stairs, near which stood the steamer’s captain, bluff 
and genial, the light from the binnacle shining on his gold- 
laced cap and weatherbeaten face. “ It’s a fine evening, my 
lady, and a pity to lose it,” said the tough old seaman, in his 
kind fatherly voice. “ We can’t, yon know, expect much more 
of the clear weather, past Malta as we are, and at this uncertain 
time of year.” 

“We shall Come on deck again. Captain Burton, thank you,” 
was the rejoinder ; and then both the sisters moved on, cabin- 
wards. As they passed the group of loungers congregated 
near the hatchway, more than one glance of mingled curiosity 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


5 

and interest was turned towards them, and then the hum of 
voice grew somewhat louder than before. With the exception 
of an oily and deferential Parsee in glossy broadcloth, diamond 
shirt-studs, and varnished boots, all the passengers chatting to- 
gether were of British speech and nationality. There was 
yellow, grumbling old Major Grudge, an Anglo-Indian, long 
since seasoned to the climate, as he tells you, somewhat boast- 
fully, after a five minutes’ acquaintanceship ; with sallow Mrs. 
Grudge and her schoolgirl daughters returning for cheap edu- 
tion at Bruges or Bonn. There w^ere languid subalterns on 
sick-leave ; a magistrate or so ; a field-ofiicer or two ; a stray 
in^go-planter ; the editor of a Mofussil newspaper ; and the 
inevitable travelling M.P., w^ho has been out to “do” India, 
and thus win for himself parliamentary prestige by asking awk- 
ward questions and tormenting optimist Secretaries of State. 
There were ladies and children in large majority of course, and 
with them the usual Nile country invalids, and the usual 
tourists, fresh from Cairo or the Cataracts. 

“ Very pretty, both ! ” drawled out a pallid young cavalry 
ofiicer, whose remaining energies, sorely impaired by brandy 
and soda imbibed amid the hot w'inds of parching Dustypore, 
seemed to be devoted to an attempt to swallow the massive 
gold head of his short whipstick. “ Hard td say which looks 
the best ; but, for choice, I’d bet upon the one who went down 
first — Miss Carew.” 

“ Then you’d lose yoqr wager, Sefton, I can tell you,” re- 
sponded bilious-eyed Major Grudge, with a grin of contempt 
for the Griffin’s discernment. “That was the Marchioness, as 
it happens, and not Miss Carew.” 

“ Mr. Sefton’s was a very natural mistake,” said good na- 
tured Mrs. Colonel Green of the Ahmednuggar Artillery. 
“ They were twin sisters, you see, and so much alike — poor, 
pretty young things. A sad story, was it not, of the Marchion- 
ess being left a widow after only a year of married life out 
there in Egypt. Her young husband, the late Marquis, had 
not had the title very long, and the doctors ordered him, as a 
forlorn-hope, to Cairo. He died there.” 

“ Not there, dear Mrs. Green ! It was at Luxor,” exclaimed 
another of the Anglo-Indian ladies eagerly. 

“ At the second Cataract ; I saw it in Galignani,'' chimed 
in a third member of the group. 

“ Excuse me,” remarked a tourist ; “ I was at Khartoum at 
the time, and know all about it. I had met the party, too, at 
l^lephanta. Terribly suddeir at the last, it was ! Poor fellow 


6 


ONE FALSE, BO 7N FA/E. 


— that young Lord Leominster, I mean — it was sad to see him, 
with his hectic color and wistful eyes, leaning on his 
young bride’s arm, among the granite columns and painted 
chambers of the temples. Everybody knew how it must end ; 
but somehow, when the worst came, everybody was shocked 
and sorry. Lucky that her sister was travelling with them, 
was it not } ” 

“ I wonder whether she will marry again ; she doesn’t look 
twenty, and a beautiful young creature too, sad as she seems 
now,” said Mrs. Green of Ahmednuggar, with that tendency to 
prophetic matchmaking which is innate in the best of women. 

“ It should be Miss Cora’s turn next,” observed the indigo- 
planter. 

Ah, we shall see about that,” put in, more authoritatively, 
another passenger, little Ned Tattle, returning from Egypt to 
his beloved Jermyn Street lodgings and his club-window, and 
who, on the strength of his familiarity with Pall-Mall gossip, 
affected the air of a fashionable oracle. “ Can’t expect two of 
a family to land a big fish, you see, like a Marquis of Leominster 
especially when a girl has not a sixpence. A wonderful match 
that, for the daughter of a poor Devonshire baronet like old 
Sir Fulford Care^i^. I remember old Sir Fulford quite well. 
And then there’s the present man. Sir Pagan, the brother of 
these young ladies, still more out at elbows, if possible, than his 
father before him. It sounds grand, ,don’t it, Carew of 
Carew ; but what’s the use of pedigree and that sort of thing, 
without the coin to back it ? ” added Tattle, whose grandfather 
had been a fashionable fishmonger in the Poultry, E.C., but 
whose own name often figured at the tag-end of printed lists 
of guests at Macbeth House, Mandeville House, and else- 
where. 

“ But she will be well off — the Marchioness of Leominster, 
I mean ? ” asked one of the company, half timidly deferring to 
Tattle’s superior information as to the ways and means of the 
aristocracy. A man who spoke so disrespectfully of baronets, 
and whose tone in talking of a Marquis was one of good- 
humored patronage, was pretty certain of commanding defer- 
ence for his opinions among colonial self-exiles, homeward- 
bound. 

“Why, yes, rather,” answered the Pall-Mall philosopher, 
with a secret delight in being listened to. “ You see, young 
Leominster — poor fellow — the late Marquis, was very much in 
love, and happened to have unusual power over the property. 
Ilis widow gets Castel Vawr, the §hpwplace of the family, on 


O^TE FALSE, BOTH FAI^. ^ 

the Welsh border, and a heap of money besides. Thirty thou- 
sand a year at the least of it, or more likely thirty-five, the 
Castel Vawr rent-roll mustTe ; and I’m not sure that Leomin- 
ster House, Piccadilly, and the London, house-property, do not 
belong to her too— for life, anyhow. Only the Lincolnshire 
estates, which are strictly entailed, go to the heir. I am 
speaking of the present Marquis of Leominster, Adolphus 
Montgomery — we called him Dolly, and thought him a muff 
second cousin to poor Wilfred that died.” 

On this subject, one or two further observations were made. 
It was told how the late Marquis’s yacht JFairy Q^ueen was on her 
way back to England, having on board, too, the remains of 
her noble owner ; and it was plausibly conjectured that the 
sisters had chosen the lengthier Southampton route, as enabling 
them to avoid the stir and bustle of the land-journey from 
Brindisi to Marseilles. And then the conversation flowed into 
other channels, and the group presently broke up. 


CHAPTER 11. 

COUNTESS DE LALOUVE. 

“ Batten down the hatches, quick, men ! Helm hard down ! 
quartermaster, d’ye hear 1 Steady, steady, there, forward ! 
Stations, all of you, and look alive ! — Mr. MacGregor, get that 
sail in before it’s blown from the bolt-ropes. — Mr. Dodd, 
a leewheel to the helm, before the sea swamps us. — Bear a hand ! 
Steady, so ! ” As the captain of the Cyprus shouted these orders 
hoarsely through his battered trumpet, his voice was all but 
drowned by the shrill shriek of the furious wind as it rushed 
through the strained rigging, and the ship reeled and q^iivered 
like a thing in pain. A gale had come on, and worse than a 
gale, for it was a white-squall. Old seamen, to whom the round- 
ing of Cape Horn is a familiar task, and who are inured to cy- 
clone and hurricane, yet speak with a semi-superstitious respect 
of the terrible white-squall of the Mediterranean. 

There had been no warning. Like a thief in the night, the 
storm had burst upon the Cyprus without threat or signal of its 
approach ; and the first intimation that nature was in a j>assion 
was that the fine steamer was laid abruptly on her beam-ends 


g omje: false, both Pair, 

in the tumbling tossing water. She righted, and fought hef 
way ahead in the midst of fierce elemental war ; but it was cruel 
work. Gone were the peaceful stars and the pure canopy of 
heaven and the drowsy ripple of the gentle waves. As if by 
magic, the scene had changed. The sky wore its ugliest frown. 
Rain and hail— no light sugarplum hailstones of summer, but 
jagged bits of ice, heavy, three-sided lumps that cut and bruised 
— lashed the deck. The wind howled in menacing cadence 
through the rigging. The salt spray broke incessantly in 
drenching showers over thO dripping bulwarks. Now and then 
there was a gurgling wash of water, as a heavy sea was shipped. 
The panting engines toiled on, fighting, as with a living foe. 
It was no easy matter to distinguish between salt sea-scud and 
driving rain. A fierce fight went on. 

The fight was on one side sustained by wolfish waves and 
harrying wind ; and on the other, by skill and patient bravery, 
and the regular steady stroke of the steam-piston, like the 
measured beat of a giant’s mighty heart, to force the Cyprus on. 
For hours, as the vessel heeled over perilously before the threat- 
ening gale, or as the billows reared their menacing heads, like 
watery mountains, to deluge the steamer’s deck with a rush of 
foaming brine, it seemed doubtful whether the balance would 
incline to life or death. Among the passengers below there 
was anxiety and alarm. Even the hardy old captain half de- 
spaired of saving the ship. Any accident, such as in quiet 
times goes for nothing, such as the snapping of a rudderchain, 
the starting of a boiler-plate, must have been fatal. 

Fortunate was it in such weather that the packet was a fine 
new steamer, well found, and urged by powerful engines, and 
thus could bear the brunt of the squall until its violence was 
somewhat spent and the danger all but over. Before the first 
gray, pinkish streaks broke in the eastern sky, there was an 
end of the torrents of rain which had deluged the deck. The 
shrieking wind had tuned down its storm-scream to a moan, 
though yet the sea ran high, and the vessel rolled heavily as she 
battled her way through the surges. The captain had gone 
below at last, leaving the care of the ship to the officer of the 
watch. 

Slowly and, as it were, reluctantly, the cold dawn came. 
The sea was still boisterous, the complaining wind yet shrill, 
and a train of ragged clouds, like fugitives from some beaten 
army, appeared, flying past along the pale skyline. It was not 
a likely moment for a passenger to quit the warmth and com- 
fort of the cabins below ; nevertheless a solitary figure presently 


ONE FALSE, BO TIL FAIR, 


9 

glided up the companion-stair and traversed the heaving deck 
— on which it was no easy matter for any but a sailor to walk 
— ^with some difficulty, but with a feline firmness and swiftness 
of tread like the soft but weighty footfall of a tigress. It was 
not, as has been said a morning to invite the veriest ad- 
mirer of Ocean to be early on deck, and such of the crew as, 
muffled in their monkey-jackets of rough Flushing or Guernsey 
cloth, bustled to and fro, looked with wonder at the foreign lady 
as she made her way to where, at the vessel’s starboard side, 
a boat, slung amidships, offered shelter alike from keen wind 
and prying eyes. There she stopped, and with one gloved hand 
on the tough cordage of the nearest shroud, stood erect, in 
spite of the violent pitching of the steamer, as if waiting for 
something or for some one. 

There are persons to be met with — not often indeed, 
some four or five times perhaps in a lifetime — who tower, 
morally or intellectually, above the heads of the easily-forgotten 
crowd, and whose hold upon the memory is quite disproportioned 
to their influence over our own private fortuees. Such a one 
was the lady who was known to chief-cabin passengers on 
board the Peninsula and Oriental packet Cyprus as Countess 
Louise and as Madame de Lalouve. See her now as she stands 
— with somewhat of the grand composure of an Egyptian statue, 
majestic in the solemn calm of untold centuries of repose — and 
looks out over the wilderness of waters. You might dislike 
her. Such as she are often the object of aversion. Very likely 
you might distrust her. But it would be impossible to consign 
her to the category of the commonplace. The mention of a 
French Countess is apt to conjure up visions of a mincing little 
woman, elaborately attired, and as artificial in her bloom as in 
her manners. But Madame de Lalouve was tall and stately, 
handsome withal, not young certainly, but with one of those clear 
dark complexions that owe nothing to cosmetics. There were 
a very few threads of shining silver to mar the ebon blackness 
of her massive hair. She dressed richly, but simply too. 

What were the antecedents of Countess Louise ? Nobody 
knew. The two or three continental passengers on board the 
Peninsular and Oriental packet were as much in the dark on 
that head as were their insular fellow-travellers. Tattle had 
seen her — he was certain of that — at an Imperial entertainment 
at the Tuileries. But this proved nothing. The official 
festivities of the French capital used to be splendid, but not 
exactly select. It was said also that the Sphinx had something 
to do with the Egyptian government and with Ismail the 


lO ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

Munificent. She had influence — so the tourists somewhat 
enviously declared — with the “ Palace lot,” with Kourbash 
Pasha, and Fellak Effendi, and Backsheesh Bey, and could get 
a state steamer, or procure an official firman before which 
Madirs grovelled, and even governors grew submissive, when 
ordinary wayfarers were helpless. 

Was Madame de Lalouve even French ? Her name sounded 
Gallic enough, and, her accent was faultless ; but she might 
well have been a Pole or a Magyar, even a Russian, so varied 
were her reminiscences of former scenes and friends, of 
Archduchesses and archplotters, of Spanish Infantas, Red 
Revolutionists, Imperial Highnesses, celebrities of the studio 
and the stage, and the oracles of the money market, when she 
deigned to talk. Sometimes she was provokingly taciturn, and 
not seldom spoke in riddles, as if to justify her Egyptian 
nickname of the Sphinx. To the Marchioness of Leominster 
and her sister Cora, this cosmopolitan Countess did apparently 
find it worth her while to talk, winning their attention, as it 
seemed, less by what she said than by the strange winning 
charm of her impressive manner. 

For whom, or for what, was it possible that Countess Louise, 
at such a time and in such weather, should be waiting, half- 
hfdden behind the boat swaying in the slings, and grasping the 
rugged shroud nearest to her for support upon that heaving 
deck ? It was not very long before the question was answered 
by the appearance of another figure, singularly out of place, as 
it seemed, in such a spot— that of a slender, golden-haired girl, 
dressed in black, who crossed the deck with slow and uncertain 
steps. She, too, glanced apprehensively around her, as if in 
dread of detection, as she approached the boat that half 
concealed the tall form of the foreign Countess. The new- 
comer was by much the younger, and should have been the 
more active of the two ; but she could scarcely keep her feet, 
so violent was the motion of the vessel. 

“ Why have you summoned me at such an hour ? ” asked 
the girl breathlessly, as : she caught at the ship’s side for 
support. ‘ 

“ Because, Mademoiselle, it was precisely at such a time 
that our meeting would pass unnoticed,” was the cool reply. 

I like the impossible, Yes, I knew, when I slipped the 

note into your hand, that you would come. The time I chose 
was just when the poor cowards below were giving themselves 
up for dead and drowned, too busy with tears and prayers, too 
hysterical and confused; to spy upon others,” 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


II 


It was an awful night,” said the girl, shuddering.” 

Yes ; but I have seen worse ! ” returned Madame de 
Lalouve, with an impatient shrug of her shapely shoulder. — 
“ Js your sister — is our dear Marchioness — at last asleep t ” 

“ Yes, Clare is asleep,” answered Miss Carew, in a low 
tone. ‘ Poor Clare — 'She was frightened ! one among so many 
who were half-dead with alarm — and I was glad to see her at 
rest when I — stole away, just now.” 

“ And you. Miss Cora, were you afraid ? ” asked Madame 
de Lalouve abruptly. 

“ No ; for a wonder, I was not,” replied the girl. “ Among 
all those terrified people, the crying children, the scared 
women, I was surprised to find myself remain so calm and 
cool — as calm, almost, Madame, as yourself.” 

Bon / I have not misjudged you,” muttered the foreign 
Countess ; “ you can dare, and you can do. Have you 
remembered my advice } ” 

“ Perfectly,” replied Miss Carew, in a very low tone, and 
growing, even by that dim and uncertain light, perceptibly 
paler. “ How should I forget ! ” 

“ Good, again,” rejoined, approvingly, Madame de Lalouve, 
as her gloomy eyes rested for a moment on the fair young face 
beside her. “ There is one thing, though, of which you have 
not thought, and here it is.” And, as she uttered the words, she 
drew forth from beneath the folds of her dark shawl a folded 
paper, thin and square, such as druggists use. “ Take it ; and 
be careful to let no eye but your own behold it, until the 
moment comes. Your woman’s wit will teach you what to do 
with it.” 

“ No, no — I cannot do it ! ” murmured the girl, with white 
lips and half-averted head ; “ never — never ! ” And she recoiled 
a little from the side of her foreign friend. 

“ Never — never ! ” repeated Madame de Lalouve, in a 
voice which, low as it was, rang with an eloquent scorn that 
was but half-suppressed. “ I was mistaken, then, after all ! 
You fail me. You are like the rest, merely the blonde Miss — 
the English insipidity, all bread and butter, as your own Lord 
Byron sang, never to shake off nursery prejudice — the preach, 
the sermon, quoi I You are afraid — a poule-mouillee, like your 
shivering ladies of last night. You flinch ! You dare not 
do it ! ” 

These last bitter words were hissed rather than spoken, 
and with an emphasis that had in it something terrible. Still, 
Miss Carew hesitated, palpably hesitated, looking down at the 


12 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


deck, until, by a sudden impulse, she lifted her blue eyes and 
met the darkling gaze of the foreign Countess with a resolution 
equal to her own. 

I am not afraid,” she said, almost in a whisper, Ciive 

it me— the packet, quick ! ” , , i . r 

The gloved hand of the Frenchwoman and the white soft 
■fingers of the English girl met and touched for an instant, as 
the thin square of folded paper was rapidly transferred from 
the keeping of Countess Louise to that of Miss Carew. 

“ Hide it — some one comes ! ” exclaimed Madame de 
Lalouve hastily ; and then she turned aside and seemed to be 
intent in her observation of sea and sky. Another passenger 
had come on deck, and this time the firm heavy tread was that 
of a man, tall, young, and sufficiently handsome. 

“ Madame de Lalouve ! ” said a deep rich voice in evident 
surprise. “ I scarcely expected to be fortunate enough to 
meet a lady on deck so early and after such a night.” 

“ You are astonished. Monsieur Talbot ? Perhaps we were 
too terrified to rest. Or we longed for fresh air. Or we 
wished to see with our own eyes — women are inquisitive, you 
know, like poor Fatima in Blue Beard’s castle — we wished to 
see that the danger was really past,” answered Countess Louise 
in the half-mocking tone that often perplexed those with whom 
she conversed. 

“ Lady Leominster ! ” said the young Englishman, with a 
gesture of raising his hat, while his whole manner changed as 
he caught sight of the younger lady’s form. “ I had no idea 
that you, too, had ventured on deck so early, and with such a 
heavy sea still running. — May I offer you my arm, if you are 
going below again ? ” It was evident that Mr. Talbot, if such 
were his name, believed himself to be addressing the widowed 
Marchioness. 

“ Courage ! It is of good omen, chere belle ! ” muttered 
Madame de Lalouve ; and with some half-audible word of 
hanks, the girl laid her white hand on the young man’s strong 
arm, and allowed herself to be led away without an attempt to 
correct the mistake into which he had fallen. 

Arthur Talbot felt the soft hand tremble, and he had enough 
to do to sustain the steps of his fair charge across the rolling 
deck ; but as he drew nearer to the cabin stairs, he turned his 
head. “ I beg your pardon. Countess,” he said, with the 
instinctive courtesy of a gentleman ; “ I will come back, if I 
can be useful to you, as soon as Lady Leominster is safe in her 
cabin.” 


One Palse, both pair. 

It IS hot the trouble to derange yourself for me, merci^ 
Monsieur ; I can take care of myself,” replied the French- 
woman, with perfect unconcern ; and then she averted her 
face and stood in an easy attitude, scanning murky sky and 
tossing sea. When she turned her head, the deck was clear, 
save where the helmsman stood, attentive, at the wheel. And 
then Madame de Lalouve traversed the difficult deck, treading 
the wet and tremulous planks with even a more assured step 
than Arthur Talbot’s own. As she descended the brass-bound 
stairs that led to the cabins below, she struck her gloved palm 
lightly upon the painted hatch, and with a brightening eye 
and a low laugh of triumph, murmured : “ The game is 
won ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

LANDING AT SOUTHAMPTON. 

Six days after the eventful night when the white squall had 
tested the Endurance of ship and crew, the fine Penisular and 
Oriental packet Cyprus was gilding through the placid tide that 
filled Southampton Water, dear to yachtsmen ; and hearts beat 
high, and eyes brightened or grew dimmed with tears, as the 
expectant passengers prepared to disembark on British ground. 
Then came the bustle of the actual landing, the noise, stir, and 
confusion, the hurried farewells to those who had of late been 
constant companions, but whose mutual memory would soon 
fade into the casual recollection of a pleasant travelling ac- 
quaintance ; and next the rush and iron clang of the swift train 
speeding Londonwards, bearing with it all the passengers with 
the exception of the two sisters, their servants, and Arthur 
Talbot. 

Half an hour later, a train was ready to start for the West, 
and by this the Marchioness and Miss Carew were to take 
their sad journey to the splendid home which the widowed 
bride and her young husband had quitted but a year ago. 

This is very kind of you, Mr. Talbot,” said the March- 
ioness, as their late fellow-traveller, having placed Lady Leo- 
minster and her sister in the railway carriage, still lingered at 
the door, while the servants bustled to and fro in their pro- 
fessional anxiety for the safety of the luggage. 


H 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


I am an idle man,” answered Talbot, smiling ; “ and my 
home, as I think I have mentioned, is but a short nine miles 
from here.” 

“ It is called Oakdene Hall, or Park — is it not ^ ” asked Miss 
Carew thoughtfully. 

“ Yes,” replied the young man ; “ Oakdene is the name. 
The old house should be flattered by your remembrance of it. 
— Though it would seem but a poor little nutshell of a place. 
Lady Leominster, beside Castel Vawr.” 

Then came the parting, that conventional ‘‘good-bye,” that 
may mean so much or so little, now lightly or mechanically 
uttered, now fraught with a tender sadness or agony of regret. 
Arthur Talbot’s voice was not quite steady as he returned the 
Marchioness’s farewell, and released the little hand that she 
held out to him from the open window of the railway carriage. 
As the train slid away from the platform, he remained motion- 
less, following it with his eyes until it was lost to sight ; and 
then turning away, walked slowly and musingly, almost sadly, 
to the hotel where he knew that he should find his carriage. 
He had ordered it to be in readiness to convey him home. 
Home ! Oakdene was the abode of his boyhood certainly, and 
he had a lingering attachment to the place ; but the red brick 
Hall of Queen Anne’s reign had been very little of a home to 
him since he had come, perhaps too early, into possession of 
his small estate. There was no one at Oakdene who loved 
him, and would await his coming with the eagerness of affection ; 
only servants more or less faithful, who regarded visits of 
their young master, rare and brief, fron^ their own point of 
view. 

London, Paris, Italy, had seen much more of the young 
Squire of Oakdene since he attained his majority, than had his 
own quiet acres of pasture and arable and woodland. It was 
in London that he had reckoned among his dearest friends the 
late Lord Leominster, but that was in the latter’s bachelor 
days. When the Marquis married, Talbot was abroad ; and 
their next and last meeting took place far up the Nile, when 
this world and its pomps and vanities had come very nearly to 
an end for the Most Honorable Wilfred of Leominster. Then 
their paths of travel again diverged ; and it was by the merest 
chance that Arthur Talbot found himself a passenger on board 
the steamer in which the widowed Marchioness and her sister 
were returning to England. Somehow, on his homeward drive 
that day along the familiar road, and as he sat afterwards at 
his solitary dinner, with the old portraits of long-dead Talbots, 


ON'E PALSE, BOTH FAik. 

his ancestors, like silent friends, eyeing him from the walls, 
tne image of Lady Leominster, gentle, sad, and beautiful, was 
seldom absent from his thoughts. 

Meantime the train, throwing behind it miles and leagues 
of moor and meadow and forest, seas of sprouting corn and 
ranges of humpbacked downs, scarred here^ and there by white 
cuttings that laid bare th^" chalk, reached the rougher and 
wilder landscape that lay far to the northwest. Those blue 
Welsh hills that towered almost threateningly, through the haze 
of the horizon, how often had they frowned defiance on the 
invader, from the day when the Roman legionaries under 
Ostorius, warily plodding on with sloped spears, in weary march 
espied them, until that which saw King Henry’s last expedition 
against rebellious Glendower. These were the fastnesses to 
which the beaten Britons had been driven back under stress of 
Saxon swords, and whence the wild clans of the Cymri made 
raids on the rich lands for ever torn away. Those times were 
gone, like the Bards and the Druids, and no lord-marcher was 
needed now to hold his fiefs by snaffle and spear, as when the 
Most Noble the Marquis of Leominster was a Marquis indeed, 
with a mark to guard, and fierce hereditary foes to keep back 
from harrying the peaceful tillers on the English side of the 
Border. Yet yonder rises on its eminence, with dark woods 
around it, Castel Vawr, flashing back the sunbeams as of old, 
more beautiful, if less strong, than before the mantling ivy and 
the drooping foxglove and tenacious bindweed had clung to its 
venerable towers, and before the once-new white Norman 
masonry had assumed the picturesque grayness of hoary 
age. 

At a tiny station, where, nevertheless, other than parliamen - 
tary trains were wont to stop, since railway Companies are ac- 
commodating where a great landowner and a peer of the realm 
is concerned, within easy reach of Castel Vawr, the two sisters 
alighted. There were carriages from the Castle in waiting 
there, and a fourgon for the luggage, and black liveries, and a 
respectful little rustic crowd oMrontier-folks, who hardly knew 
to which nationality, Celtic or Teutonic, they belonged ; who 
talked English in the alehouse and sang Welsh hymns in chap- 
el, but who took off their broad-brimmed West-countiy hats 
with a low murmur of inarticulate reverence, as the widowed 
mistress of the great Castle passed through the midst of them 
on her way from the platform to her carriage. That carriage, 
with its sable hammercloth and coroneted panels, blended em- 
blems of pride and woe, rolled off, swiftly and smoothly, along 


One false, botn fair. 


i6 

'the well-kept road. It was bright spring-weather, the lark car- 
'olling aloft, the saucy chaffinch chirping from the apple-boughs 
that overtopped the woodbine-clustered hedge of some cottage 
/garden. 

But the occupants of the carriage, as it traversed this smiling 
landscape, had remained silent, until at length one of them said 
almost timidly, in a low sweet voice that was broken by emo-' 
tion : “ I hope, my darling sister, that we at least shall never 
be parted. 1 have but you in the world now, remember, and 
we two should never separate.” 

With some slight expression as of perplexed surprise, but 
with ready tears welling up to her gentle eyes, she who was ad- 
dressed bent forward to kiss the speaker’s pale cheek. “ We 
never will, dearest, if the choice rests with me ! ” she said, softly, 
and then the two sat for some moments hand in hand, but 
mute. 

The carriage had by this time reached the lodge gates of 
the ample Park, and was rolling along amidst green lawns and 
bosky dells, beloved of the fallow-deer, under the arching oaks 
of the grand avenue. 

Again was heard that sweet tremulous voice : “ I do hope, 
love, that we shall both feel equally at home at Castel Vawr, as 
we did once at poor shabby old Carew. I do hope that it will 
be your home, dear sister, while I live, as well as mine.” 

Again the look of pain and surprise crossed the listener’s 
fair face ; but the only reply was a smothered sob, for just then 
the carriage dashed up to the stately front of the Castle and 
came to a stop before the great doors, wide open now, while a 
muster of liveried servants stood on the broad steps waiting to 
welcome their mistress. 

In the great drawing-room of Castel Vawr, the many win- 
dows of which commanded a matchless prospect of vale and 
river and the bold chain of the Welsh mountains beyond, sat 
Lady Barbara Montgomery, a^ spinster aunt of the late Mar- 
quis, tall, upright, and dignified, with aquiline features and 
iron-gray hair smoothly braided. Unfriendly social critics not: 
unfrequently remarked of Lady Barbara that she was as cold 
as an icicle and as hard as a flint ; but the remark was not 
quite just. She was a proud woman, nothing more ; but then 
nobody loves the proud if pride implies undue reticence. The 
silent are always at a discount in society, and very few of us 
have eyes keen enough to penetrate the defensive armor of 
:suQh as Lady Barbara. She was not proud because she was- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


17 

a Lady Barbara — not in the least. With her the pride was 
quite innate, and would have made itself obtrusively manifest had 
she been the daughter of the pettiest village shopkeeper. As it 
was, it centred in the strongly felt remembrance of her ancient 
lineage, and in the appreciating of a semi-feudal splendor and 
dignity of deportment doubly dear to her because nothing else 
had ever awakened her frigid fancy. 

Two thirds of Lady Barbara’s life had been spent at Castel 
Vawr, and yet she was by no means dependent either on her 
brother the former, or her nephew the late Marquis. An early 
bequest had made her rich. She had a good London house, 
had she chosen to live in it, and a handsome income, had she 
cared to spend it ; but she clung to the Border Castle with an 
attachment that was absolutely catlike ; and her great fear had 
been that she might have to leave the house that was her birth- 
place, as the chiefship of the family might now devolve upon a 
cousin. That fear, however, was happily averted. The late 
Marquis had possessed an unusual power of making splendid 
settlements for his young wife’s benefit, and Clare was to have 
the castle and lands for her life. Lady Barbara had not much 
apprehension that the widowed Lady Leominster would either 
object to her continued residence beneath that stately roof, or 
interfere to any serious extent with her customary household 
arrangements. The Marchioness would reign, of course, as 
titular sovereign ; but hers would be 'a. sway like that of some 
Merovingian king of France, with my Lady Barbara for a petti- 
coated Mayor of the Palace. 

Lady Barbara was not on this occasion alone. With her 
was the family solicitor Mr. Pontifex, of the well-known firm of 
Pounce and Pontifex, who had journeyed down from Lincoln’s 
Inn expressly to receive the widow of his late noble client on 
her first arrival as absolute mistress of princely Castel Vawr. 
These hereditary lawyers often come to consider themselves as 
part and parcel of the great families whose marriage and mort- 
gage deeds they have continued to draw, and whose feuds and 
weaknesses and whims have been laid bare before them for 
successive generations. Pounce and Pontifiex, who were, so 
to speak, legal confessors to half the peerage, had a special re- 
gard for the House of Montgomery-Leominster. Mr. Pontifex 
himself, a round little man, with gray whiskers, gold-rimmed 
glasses, and a wholesome pinkish face, looked very like a coun- 
try banker or land-agent, and not in the least like the ideal of 
a London attorney. His manner was at once bland and abrupt, 
perhaps jerky; and he took a good deal of strong-scented 


1 8 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

snuff from a costly box, the valued legacy of a ducal client long 
deceased. 

“ How fortunate, as I said before, that poor Wilfred was so 
thoughtfuf,” said Lady Barbara, after a pause, during which 
lawyer and lady had alike been listening for the expected 
sound of wheels ; “ and that he was able, too, to dispose of his 
own. For otherwise, Adolphus Montgomery would have been 
master here, and Castle Vawr could have been no home for me 
any more.” 

Adolphus was the name of the new Marquis of some weeks’ 
date, and Lady Barbara could not endure as yet to speak of 
him otherwise than by his plain Christian and surname, while 
even these she pronounced with a little pardonable irritation. 
It provoked her that the Leominster coronet should have 
passed away from the main stem — her own — to a younger 
branch, descended from a half-forgotten cadet of long ago. 
Such feelings may be foolish, but they are not unnatural. Be 
sure that Marguerite of Valois, discarded wife und divorced 
queen of the Great Henri, had her own private notions as to 
the mushroom pretensions of the then upstart royal House of 
Bourbon of Navarre ! The remark was transparently selfish, 
but it did not surprise Mr. Pontifex, who merely showed his 
white front teeth as he replied : “ Very fortunate ! The pres- 
ent peer, however, will — Ah ! there is the carriage.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

/am the marchioness. 

The lawyer was right. The unmistakable dash and clash 
of hoofs and wheels heralded the anticipated arrival. Then, 
after a brief delay, the door was opened, and the groom of the 
chambers announced : “ The Marchioness, my lady ! and Miss 
Carew ! ” 

Lady Barbara stepped forward with a stately tenderness of 
manner that became her well, to greet her widowed niece, as 
the two sisters in their morning garb appeared in the doorway. 
Mr. Pontifex stood, bowing and smiling, in the background as 
the two girlish figures approached. She who came first, threw 
her arms round Lady Barbara’s neck, exclaiming in a voice 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


19 

half-stifled by emotion, “ I little thought when I left home — it 
seems but yesterday — that I should return here alone, and — 

and Yes, dear aunt, it is the coming back to old Castel 

Vawr that brings my bereavement with fresh sorrow — the pain 
of it — back to me. I feel just now as I did when — when — ” 
And she broke down, sobbing. 

An outburst of passionate grief, even in our placid epoch, 
is contagious. Mr. Pontifex took snuff more demonstratively 
than was usual with him. It was in a very softened tone, and 
in a quasi-maternal manner, that Lady Barbara said, “ Be com- 
forted, my child — my poor Clare ; you are at home again now, 
dear, and with friends. — Here is Mr. Pontifex, whom you may 
remember, perhaps,” added the chatelaine of Castel Vawr, as 
she recollected the presence of the family lawyer. — “ Yes, yes ; 
you are back with us again, in England, and at home ; and 
then, too, you have your sister. Miss Corar” And Lady Bar- 
bara held out her hand, with a smile that was meant to be 
cordial, to the pale, fair girl, who stood, as if hesitating, a pace 
behind, and who now came forward, and with the color flutter- 
ing in her cheek, said, in a faltering voice, “ You mistake me, 
aunt — Lady Barbara ! Do you not know me then ? / am the 

Marchioness ! ” 

The other sister, still sobbing, started, and turning towards 
the last speaker, said, in a tone of bewilderment, “ Why, Cora ? 
O sister — my poor Cora — what can all this mean } ” 

Lady Barbara herself drew back, astonishment in her eyes, 
displeasure in her voice. “ Miss Carew ! ” she said, grimly. 

The girl thus addressed grasped the chair beside her for 
support, and in a voice that was even less steady than before, 
made answer, “ I am Lady Leominster. I was Wilfred’s wife. 
Shocked though I am, and surprised as I am, I must repeat 
that this is the truth.’ 

Mr. Pontifex, who had been fidgeting uneasily to and fro on 
the hearthrug, now began to arch his gray eyebrows seriously 
enough, as if he saw that matters were taking a graver turn than 
had been usual in his large experience of common-place per- 
sons and events. He took off his gold-rimmed spectacles, 
rubbed the glasses and readjusted them on his nose, and then 
stepped forward, clearing his voice before he said, somewhat 
awkwardly, for even a solicitor can be bashful, “ This is a pain- 
ful scene, very painful to me, I can assure you. Lady ^Barbara. 
There must be some grievous mistake, or some over-excitement 
to account for — for so extraordinary an affair.” 

Lady Barbara, with a face that was very grave indeed, drew 


20 


ONE FALSE y BOTH FAIR. 


herself up to the full height, and said, earnestly, “ Miss Cora 
—Miss Carew ! I appeal to you to give up this most unseemly 
contest, and be your better self again. I entreat you, for all 
our sakes, not to continue this ill-judged claim, which can but 
trouble the peace of the family with which you are connected, 
and which must be useless to yourself.” 

She to whom this speech was addressed made answer, 
“ Lady Barbara Montgomery, I can prove what I say.” 

Her sister here broke in almost in a shriek. “ I see it all ! ” 
she cried ; “ I see it now clearly, only too clearly. It is the 
doing of that wicked Frenchwoman, that so-called Countess de 
Lalouve, with whom you, my poor misled Cora, became, unhap- 
pily, so intimate on board the Cyprus^ on our voyage home 
from Egypt. She it is who has prompted you to this, and she 
alone ; I feel sure of it, for my own pure-hearted sister would 
never of herself have — Ah, it is terrible — base ! — Cora, 
darling, my poor, loved Cora, listen to the pleading of your 
better angel— -fling aside the sinful fancy— give up this cruel 
wrong to her who loves you, and take my full and free forgive- 
ness, dearest, and your twin-sister’s lifelong love ! ” 

“ Never ! ” was the passionate rejoinder, amidst stormy 
sobs — “ never ! You madden me. I — I — am indeed — Clare — 
Lady Leominster ! ” And the girl, sinking on the sofa near 
her, buried her beautiful head among the silken cushions and 
wept with a passion of grief that could not be checked. Lady 
Barbara’s expostulations went for nothing. So did the caresses 
and the soft words of the sister who. knelt beside her. Mr. 
Pontifex, elevating his bushy brows into the form of the Sara- 
cenic arch, took prodigious quantities of his highly scented 
snuff, as he surveyed the scene. 

For a long time — it seemed long ; but a period of excite- 
ment cannot be accurately gauged by the matter of fact stand- 
ard of mere seconds and minutes — the weeping girl remained 
as it were alone with her own thoughts, and paid no heed to 
the remonstrances of Lady Barbara, or to the entreaties of her 
sister. At last she rose, pushing back as she did so, with an 
impatient gesture, the golden hair that hung disordered over 
her temples, and with a set stern face, that indicated a courage 
strangely at variance with her youthful appearance and slender 
form. “Lady Barbara,” she said, resolutely, ‘^I have made up 
my mind, and will stay no longer where my word is doubted 
and my position denied. I shall leave this house. I shall go 
to London. With my brother I can find a refuge, until it is 
proved — as I am resolved it $hall be — that I am Marchioness 


21 


om FALSE, BOTLt FAIR, 

of Leominster, and should be mistress here.’^ There were no 
tears in her eyes now, though she was pale, and her features 
had hardened to the cold beauty of sculptured marble. She 
never faltered in her resolve ; and Lady Barbara, who was used 
to speak with authority, felt the words of well-meant expostula- 
tion die away upon her lips. 

Mr. Pontifex, who had been restlessly rubbing his plump' 
hands together, and blinking like an elderly owl in the daylight,, 
now came to the front. “ May 1 ask,” he said, in a quick,, 
business-like . tone, which indicated a certain inward sense of 
satisfaction at his own presence of mind, “ which lady wears the 
wedding ring ? ” His eye fastened as he spoke on the marble- 
white face of the beautiful girl who had last spoken. Instantly 
she snatched off her glove, showing the golden circlet on her 
slender finger. The other, too, slowly ungloved her hand, 
whereon also glistened a wedding-ring ! 

The lawyer, like Lady Barbara, was for a moment struck 
dumb with astonishment. He stood for a little, as if consider- 
ing what to do next. Then he spoke. “ Allow me to ask,” he 
said, “ if none of the servants who have travelled with you can 
help us out of this difficulty ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the sister who had declared her intention of 
quitting the house for London ; “ call Pinnett, my maid ; she 
travelled with us from Egypt.” 

Pinnett was called. 

“ There is a slight difficulty here,” said the lawyer in his 
best judicial tone to the maid. “ Will you be so good as point 
out to us which of these two ladies” — indicating the sisters with 
a wave of the hand — “ is my lady the Marchioness ? ” 

There was no hesitation in Pinnett’s manner. She promptly 
turned towards them, and pointing to the sister who had first 
entered the room, and addressed herself as the widow to Lady 
Barbara, said, “ That is the Marchioness.” 

“ Oh, Pinnett,” cried the sister about to be exiled, “ how 
had you the heart to do it ! ” 

The lawyer, with mobile eyebrow^s and pursed lips, retreated’ 
a pace or two, and again sought counsel from his snuffbox.. 
But Lady Barbara, fairly shocked at the deliberate duplicit}^^ 
which had been exhibited before her eyes, drew herself up to 
her full height, and said slowly and frostily to the sister who> 
had last spoken, “ Miss Carew has chosen her path in life. She 
had better act up to her expressed determination, and — go ! 

Then worthy Mr. Pontifex again came forward. He musL 
he begged to remind Lady Barbara, be in London that night. 


OME i^ALsM, SOTil PAli^. 


2i 

He should be most happy, as an old friend and legal adviser of 
—ahem ! both families, to escort the young lady, whose posi- 
tion at Castel Vawr could not be otherwise than distressing 
and difficult, to her brother’s house in Bruton Street. 

“ 1 knew Sir Fulford Carew well, very well,” he added ; 
likewise old Sir Prideaux ; and have seen Sir Pagan, and 
shall be glad to be of service in this emergency.” 

“ You are very kind, sir, — I thank you. I am ready,” said 
the girl, speaking in the hard, mechanical tone of a sleep- 
walker, as she turned towards the door. 

“ Cora ! ” pleaded her sister, but quite in vain. 

“ Rest and refreshment at least ” Lady Barbara began. 

“ I want neither,” was the cold reply ; “ when Mr. Pontifex 
is ready to go, I am also.” 

Lady Barbara rang the bell. A servant who answered the 
summons, received orders to send round the carriage that was 
to convey Mr. Pontifex to the station. 

“ The young lady’s luggage ? ” asked the lawyer, in an audi- 
ble whisper. 

“ It shall be sent to-morrow,” replied Lady Barbara, magis- 
terially ; “ We will have what is necessary for immediate re- 
quirements unpacked and placed in the carriage.” 

“ My maid has all the keys,” said the sister of her who was 
about to depart, self-exiled, from the stately English home so 
recently reached. 

Very soon the final arrangements were hurried through, 
and the carriage was announced. 

There was a hasty leave-taking on the part of Mr. Pontifex, 
who was anxious to abridge a painful scene. But without a 
word or gesture of farewell, the pallid, beautiful girl, upon 
whom all eyes were bent, turned to go. Twice she spoke, first 
as she left the great drawing-room, and again after she had 
traversed the huge hall, and was crossing the outer threshold. 
“ I shall come back,” she said each time — “ I shall come back, 
and as mistress here ; ” but she uttered the phrase in the same 
cold, monotonous cadence, as of one who talks in sleep. Never 
once did she look at her sister ; never once did she reply to 
the words which that sister continued to address to her to the 
last. Her demeanor was unchanged as she sat in the carriage 
on its way to the station, and in the train on its journey to 
London. When, in the lawyer’s company, she was in the cab 
that rattled through the gaslit metropolitan thoroughfares 
towards her brother’s bachelor abode in Bruton Street, she 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


23 


murmured, half unconsciously, but in a tone too low to catch 
the ear of Mr. ^ontifex, “The die is cast; I must assert my 
own. I cannot spare her now ! 


CHAPTER V. 

SIR PAGAN. 

“ Cheer up though, Sir Pagan ! It comes and goes that 
way. And if Prince Arthur didn’t win the Cup, it was no 
fault of the dog’s, after all.” 

“ Never thought it was, Weston,” was the curt reply. 

“ Nor yet it wasn’t the trainer’s fault. Sir Pagan,” promptly 
rejoined the first speaker. A braver greyhound or a stauncher 
never started out of slip ; and he came in prime condition, 
fresh as paint, to the post — he did, and with only five to three 
laid against him at the last. And if there hadn’t been that 
aggravating double, and the fool of a judge hadn’t ruled it 
against Prince Arthur, the thing was” — 

“ There, there, Weston ! ” broke in the baronet roughly 
but not unkindly ; “ don’t hash up that old story again. I’ve 
heard enough of it, and it’s always much to the same tune, and 
ends somehow in leaving my pocket emptier than before. You 
didn’t come up to-day merely to tell me why my dogs didn’t win 
the York Cup. — None of them sick, are they?” he added 
hastily and with genuine anxiety. 

“ No, Sir Pagan ; they're all right, the beauties, and fit as” 
— the speaker hesitated for a moment, in search of an adequate 
simile, and not finding one at once apposite and unhackneyed, 
ended his phrase meekly with “ fiddles. — But that isn’t quite 
all. I made bold to run up to-day to ask you for a checque, 
Sir Pagan.” 

“ And you couldn’t have come at a worse time, I can tell 
you that,” returned his employer, irritably, as he tapped hard 
with the sun-browned forefinger of his ungloved right hand on 
the battered mahogany table by which he stood. 

“ Now, Sir P.,” began the trainer, persuasively, “ we must 
be reasonable. Sir P. — mustn’t we } — and look at both sides of 
the thing. I have expenses, heavy expenses, to keep up my 
place on the Berkshire Downs. Haven’t I ^ot watchers tg 


24 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


pay — ay, and to keep up to their work — besides wanting chaps 
to watch the watchers. There’s rent and taxes to pay, there’s 
the lads, and the vet., and the travelling, which requires no 
lads, but experienced men. I do justice to the dogs — every 
gentleman owns that ; but I’ve a duty, too, to my own family, 
and I can’t be be always paying out, and never putting in ; can 
I, Sir Pagan ? A hundred is nothing to you” — 

“ Isn’t it, though ! ” rapped ont the baronet petulantly. 
“ I tell you, Weston, as I told you before, that it’s dead-low 
water with me, and there isn’t a fellow in London harder pressed 
than myself. Fortune keeps dancing ahead of me like a Will- 
o’-the-Wisp, I think, to lure me on through bog and quagmire, 
and always keeps beyond my reach. I could almost wish, now, 
that I’d never had a horse of my own, or a dog. I’ve a mind 
to cut the whole thing, drop my baronetcy like a hot potato, 
call myself plain Pagan Carew, and as such, be off to Australia. 
At any rate, I could dig.” 

It was evening already, and the gas that had been lighted 
in the dusky, angular dining-room of the grim old house in 
Bruton Street, threw its yellow gleam upon the two parties to 
to this conversation, each a type after his kind. Mr. Weston, 
the trainer, was a stout man of middle age, whose buff waist- 
coat, neatly tied cravat of palest blue, and wholesome, clean 
shaven face, indicated nothing that we usually associate with a 
mercenary connection with dogs, horses, and the Turf. His 
appearance was almost ostentatiously respectable ; and his 
shrewd blue eyes, a trifle restless, perhaps, retained almost a 
boyish candor when they met those of a customer or patron. 
Yet Joseph Weston had been a trainer of racehorses before he 
was a trainer of greyhounds ; and if his character remained as 
honest as his looks, he was an astonishing example of how it 
is possible in any calling to avoid the pervading contagion of 
roguery. 

Very different was the aspect of Sir Pagan. A young man 
still — he was in reality eight and twenty, but looked older by 
half a dozen years — he showed not the faintest resemblance to 
his two beautiful sisters. Nay, more ; a hasty observer might have 
failed to class him as a gentleman ; but a more patient scrutiny 
would have rectified that error. Sir Pagan was emphatically a 
gentleman ; and the remembrance of the fact, and that he was 
a Carew of Carew, steadied him, and supported him somehow 
in the midst of wild comrades and evil counsellors. The baro- 
net — it was Charles I. who gave the honors of the Ulster Red 
Hand to his ancestors — had not begun his career qqder very 


I om FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 2^ 

I favorable auspices. His grandfather had been a magnificent 
local spendthrift ; his father a needy but ostentatious impairer 
[ of the deeply dipped family property. Sir Pagan, half educated, 
f; found himself the representative of the grand old name, and 
; the master of the ruinous mansion, with an estate that ’bore 
j| mortgages rather than crops, and a traditional obligation to 
heep greyhounds, to hunt the county, and to contest elections 
I as his forefathers had done. 

jl There the head of the ancient house stood, in his dingy 
I dining room in Bruton Street, his muscular hand resting on the 
graceful head of a noble greyhound of the old-fashioned York- 
; shire breed, too aged now, to win money for the master whose 
: almost inseparable friend he was. Personally, Sir Pagan was 

a dark-haired man of average height, with a well knit figure, a 
swarthy complexion, and hard features. Strangers never liked 
him. But there was something in Sir Pagan’s ugly face, when 
you came to know him, which pleaded in his behalf — a curious 
wistfulness, as if he would be better if he could, which we may 
read in the eyes of more than one specimen of the genus to 
w'hich he belonged. His education, as has been said, had been 
sorely neglected. Beyond a certain narrow practical groove, 
his ignorance was stupendous ; but then he had the grace 
to be aware of it, and be sorry that it was so. As a hawking, 
hunting gentleman, like those early Sir Pagans whose oddly 
sounding baptismal appellation cropped up so often in his 
Devonshire pedigree, the baronet would have done very well. 
He could have charged with Rupert gallantly enough. He 
would have won credit had he sailed with Effingham against 
the Invincible Armada. In the nineteenth century he was an 
anchronism, much as a sachem of the Pequods, in plumes and 
war-paint, would be in the bustling Massachusetts of to-day. 
All his life long he had been painfully short of cash, and he 
knew no way to redress the waning balance at his bankers’ but 
by winning bet or stake, by a lucky deal in horses, or by cards. 
He was in evening costume now, being engaged to dine in con- 
genial company at a well-known Club, the Chesterfield, where 
play ran high, and was therefore in a hurry to be rid of his 
trainer, the more so as a demand for the ready coin was to 
him a source of misery. 

The rapid driving of a cab, and the clang and peal of knocker 
and door-bell, interrupted the colloquy between Mr. Weston 
and his employer ; and then followed the tread of feet and the 
murmur of voices, and stranger still, a sound as of stifled sobs 
in the narrow entrance-hall. Before the baronet could recover 


26 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

from his surprise, the door of the dingy dining-room was hur- 
riedly flung open by a nondescript man-servant, half groom, 
half footman, who blurted out the words : “ Lady Leominster, 
Sir Pagan — that is to say. Miss Carew — and Mr. Pontifex.’^ 

Sir Pagan could hardly believe his ears. He came forward, 
half mechanically, to receive the girl, in mourning garb, who 
tottered rather than walked into the room, putting out both 
her trembling little hands to meet that which the baronet some- 
what awkwardly extended to her ; and next, breaking down 
altogether, sank upon the chair nearest to her and sobbed as 
if her heart would break. 

“ No one but you, now, brother — no one but you ! ” she 
said, in a low wailing voice that it was very sad to hear. 

Sir Pagan winced perceptibly, as though the words, or the 
tone of heart-broken wretchedness in which they were uttered, 
came home to him as a reproach. Fraternal affection is not a 
quality very strongly developed or very effusively displayed in 
modern Englisli life ; but Sir Pagan, at the sight of his sister’s 
distress, could not but feel that as a brother he had been rough 
and careless. “ There, there, Clare — don’t cry,” he said with 
clumsy kindness, as he bent over her. “ I’m glad to see you ; 
but it does take a fellow aback, somehow, when he hadn’t a 

notion Mr. — yes, Mr. Pontifex — beg your pardon. I’m 

sure.” And he clutched the little lawyer’s fleshy hand between 
his own strong fingers with a force that made the visitor wince. 
“ Pray, sit down — so very kind of you — thanks ! ” and Sir 
Pagan looked round the room in bewilderment, until he espied 
the trainer, who was now slowly sliding towards the door. — 
“Another time, Weston. I’ll write — or come.” 

“ Good evening. Sir P. ,” replied the discreet Weston, as he 
slipped out and softly reclosed the door. 

The tall greyhound, with a low whine akin to that of recog- 
nition, solemnly advanced and laid his handsome head for a 
moment on the arm of the slender girl, who remained in a 
crouching attitude in the chair into which she had fallen, and 
then gravely returned to his station at his master’s feet. That 
master, sorely puzzled, looked first at his sister, and then at 
Mr. Pontifex. The latter, having cleared his throat, and first 
wiped and then deliberately readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, 
began nervously an explanation, the only immediate effect of 
which was to increase fifty-fold the very natural perplexity of 
his host. 

“ By Jupiter, sir ! ” exclaimed Sir Pagan at last, slapping 
down his heavy hand upon the dulled and scratched mahogany 


ONE PALSEy BOTH FAIR, 


27 

of the heavy old table, whereon many a feast had smoked under 
the Georgian reigns ; “ I don’t wish to be rude, but this will 
drive me mad, I think. I understood you to say that it was my 
sister Clare the Marchioness — that you have brought here 
with you to-day, and now you hint that it is Cora— I thought it 
was from the first— and what’s all that about Lady Barbara 
somebody, and Castel Vawr, and the painful business, and so 
forth ? What has happened ? All I can gather is that there 
has been a row of some sort.” 

“Excuse me, Sir Pagan,” replied the polite little lawyer; 
“ 1 did not venture to commit myself to any decided statement 
as to the identity of the lady who — ” 

''Do you not know me — brother.?” exclaimed the sobbing 
girl, pushing back her veil, and letting the gaslight stream full 
upon her agitated face. 

“ No ; upon my honor, I don’t, for in truth it’s so many 
years since — ” blundered out the young baronet, in his bluff 
way. “ But don’t cry, dear. You’re my sister, anyhow, and 
you are welcome. I’ll do my best.” And again Sir Pagan 
looked distractedly at the solicitor. 

“ I am Clare — poor Clare,” she answered ; and then, after 
a pause, went on : “I have come to seek shelter, come to take 
refuge with you. Pagan, until I can prove what I say. You are 
not angry with me, are you, brother dear, because I — because 
I come to you ? ” 

The last words were so touchingly uttered, that rough Sir 
Pagan’s own voice was a little husky as he replied, patting her 
gently on the shoulder, as if she had been a child : “ No, no ; 
never think that. You mustn’t mind me, you know. I w'as 
always a bear, wasn’t I ? I’ll do my best, though — and — and 
— Mr. Pontifex, one word with you. — Back in no time, 
dear ! ” And with scant ceremony. Sir Pagan whisked the 
plump, elderly attorney out of the room, and into a den which 
the master of the house called his study, and which, so far as 
Mr. Pontifex could see by the dim light of a candle that his host 
had snatched up in traversing the narrow hall, was littered with 
a wild confusion of fishing tackle, whips, boots, spurs, and 
other paraphernalia of the chase, a pair of giant antlers being 
nailed above the mean chimney-piece, but which contained 
never a book. The owner of this delectable library turned 
sharply upon the lawyer, glad, as it seemed, to speak his mind 
to a man, undisturbed by the presefice of the hysterical sex. 

“ Look ye, Mr. Pontifex,” he said ; “ one thing out of all 
this muddle is clear, and that is, that you mean well and mean 


28 


dNk FALSE, BOTH kAIR. 


kindly ; but all the rest is a riddle to me. I don^t take sides 
myself, in rows between women. And by Jove j sir, I’m no 
more fit to decide in such a matter than my dog Dart is. Clare 
and Cora were always alike — wonderfully alike — somebody 
might be sure to spot the right one ; but I, anyhow, wouldn’t 
risk anything on my own judgment. In any case, she is my 
sister, poor thing.” 

“ And therefore can count on a refuge and friendly sympathy 
here. Sir Pagan, if I apprehend you rightly } ” said the lawyer. 

“Just so,” answered Sir Pagan, kicking at the rusty fender. 
“ Of course, I see that something’s dreadfully wrong — some- 
body’s not playing on the square ; but in any case, Cora — or 
Clare — must stop here till it’s put to rights.” 

“ Then I have only to take my leave, Sir Pagan,” said Mr. 
Pontifex, and with a tolerably good grace submitted his plump 
and flaccid hand to a second experience of the baronet’s vice- 
like grip. Then Sir Pagan re-conducted his visitor to the street 
door, where the cab was still in waiting ; and when that hired 
vehicle had gone clattering off, Sir Pagan slowly returned to 
the room where he had left his sister. 


CHAPTER VI. 

BACHELOR QUARTERS. 

Sir Pagan, as with hesitating steps he recrossed his cramped 
entrance-hall, and even as he laid a reluctant grasp upon the 
handle of his dining-room door, pondered — for him at least, to 
whom continuous thinking was an irksome labor, to be shirked 
if practicable — deeply enough. His was by no means an envi- 
able frame of mind. His own cares, his own thinly gilded me- 
diocrity of means, occupied him quite sufficiently, without his 
having to burden himself with the additional load of another’s 
troubles. As he muttered beneath his breath, it was 
“handicapping a man a stone above his proper weight.” And 
he really did feel as if Fortune had dealt with him unfairly in 
this matter. Between himself and his sisters there had been 
naturally little sympathy. His habits were not as theirs. He 
had been so seldom in their company, as to be counted almost 
a stranger ; and when with them, the conversation had been 


ONE FALSE, LOTH FAIR. 


29 


curt and scant and the reverse of confidential. It is wonder- 
ful, in country-house life, how very little brothers and sisters 
are thrown together when there is a difference in age and a 
divergence as to tastes. Seldom did the strong, swarthly 
lad, whose idle half-hours were spent in the stableyard or in 
sweet converse with the tough rat-eyed old gamekeeper Dick 
Springle, address a word beyond some careless greeting to the 
timid girls who were his nearest kindred. He was still more 
inattentive as they grew up to womanhood and had 
begun to visit at great English country mansions, the wealthy 
owners of some of which were proud to claim cousinship with 
the impecunious, immemorial family of far-off Devonshire. 

It was on the occasion of one of these visits that Clare 
had been woed and won by the Marquis of Leominster ; and it had 
been thought fit that the long-descended bride should be married 
from the old house of Carew, where her forefathers had dwelt 
in splendor. What that sumptuous wedding ceremony had 
cost old Sir Fulford Carew, Sir Pagan still, in recollection, 
groaned over. For the old baronet had died shortly after the 
marriage ; and when his son, now Sir Pagan, who had been on 
the continent for some years — perhaps self-exiled for retrench- 
ment’s sake — was suddenly recalled home, it was not only to 
succeed to the estates and honors of his father, but to his debts 
as well. No ^mall portion of these debts had been accumu- 
lated on the head of that sumptuous wedding ; and even at the 
moment when we introduce Sir Pagan to the reader, part of 
these bridal festivities remained unpaid. There were London 
milliners, pastrycooks, decorative upholsterers, in fact tradesmen 
of every caste, who still plied the broken-down baronet with perio- 
dical dunning letters on the subject of unpaid accounts and bal- 
ances uncleared. But, as to the festival itself, the late Sir Fulford 
had done his best ; and for a week or two the tumbledown old 
mansion of Carew had been radiant in the brief sunshine of 
mock prosperity. 'Fhere had been the traditional merry-making 
— the oxen roasted whole, the dancing on the green — a clumsy„ 
sheep-faced performance on the part of washed and self-conscious 
rustics, gamboling, in their Sunday church-going clothes, before 
the eyes of the quality — the fireworks, the triumphal arches, 
the alecasks set abroach, the flower strewed paths for bridal 
feet to tread, the triple bob majors clanging from the bells of 
spire and turret, that had furnished two columns and a half of 
florid, jocund, enthusiastic eloquence to the Devonshire Herald, 
Exeter Express, and Western Times. 

§ir Pagan Carew really did feel himself an ill-used fellow. 


30 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


There was his sister Clare, reared like himself in shifty and 
pretentious poverty, but who by rare good luck had made a 
magnificent marriage. She was a widow now, poor thing, but 
very rich, very young, more than pretty. She was in a position 
to afford her sister Cora advantages which few good-looking 
girls born to no heritage beyond a pedigree dating from the 
druids, are likely to possess. And that was about all. “ The 
girls ” — such had been Sir Pagan’s muttered solliloquy many a 
time — “ have all the luck.” He himself had had but 
very little luck. And now there was some mystery, some 
dispute, some life and death struggle, between these sis- 
ters, of whom he always retained, in that muddled memory of 
his, a vague but kindly remembrance. Such a quarrel implied 
tears, wordy talk, scenes, partisanship ; and Sir Pagan was 
English and undramatic to the backbone. It was not with the 
best of grace that he opened the door ; but still he could not 
shut out a pleading sister. At the sound of his heavy tread, 
she started from her crouching attitude, and turned her face, 
on which the tearstains glistened, towards him as he en- 
tered. 

“ If you will not quite believe me, will you at least take 
care of me. Pagan ? ” she said, wearily but beseechingly. 

“ Of course I v/ill,” answered the baronet, much relieved. 
“ Never doubt me ! I’ll send Mrs. Tucker. She’ll make you 
comfortable, and get your rooms ready ; and you must try to 
put up with bachelor quarters, and a seedy, shabby, old town- 
house. This is not exactly what I might call a home. I never 
go into a room except this and where I sleep, aud the study 
where the whips and sticks are. And I’m not much in the 
house — scarcely dined in it twice this twelvemonth. That re- 
minds me that I’m expected to dine with a party of men at our 
Club, the Chesterfield; and, by Jove ! I am late already, and 
must go. — There, there; don’t cry — poor Cora — Clare — 
Well, well ! We’ll have another chat when you have rested ; 
not to-night, though, for you are tired, and I shall be late.— 
Goodnight! I’ll send Tucker,” *And the baronet made his 
escape. 

He was as good as his word ; and Mrs. Tucker the house- 
keeper, having hastily arrayed herself in her robe of state 

composed of stiff black silk, with metallic creases in its folds, 
and with a ghostly rustling about its sweeping draperies — came 
to tap softly at the door. She had a crumpled countenance, 
had this Dame Tucker, as though the many lines in her old 
face needed to have been ironed out by some experienced 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


31 

clear-starcher ; and her age was as indefinite as that of the 
shiny gown which, having been worn on high-days and holi- 
days for who knows how long, had just been snatched from its 
retirement in the recesses of a lavender scented chest. 

The old housekeeper made her way to where the new ar- 
rival, in her mourning garb, sat, with drooping head and dis- 
ordered hair. She was as kindly and as deferential as her old 
and warped nature would permit. ‘ Beg your pardon, miss — 
my lady — but your ladyship must be tired after such a journey, 
and I have Sir Pagan’s orders to — O my darling, my dear 
young lady, don’t be so wretched, at your first coming back — 
home ! ” For the new-comer — some of those hiddden springs 
that lurk deep down in the nature of us all, being touched, 
somehow, by the old servant’s babble — began to sob wildly, 
passionately, as though her heart would indeed break. “ O 
deary, deary, won’t you trust old Tucker?” exclaimed the 
housekeeper, tears unwonted at her time of life moistening her 
wrinkled eyes, as she looked down upon her young charge in 
that abasement of sore distress. 

Now, with all Mrs. Tucker’s kindliness, one thing was lack- 
ing, and that one thing was the very pith and essence of our 
dealings with one another — confidence. Sir Pagan had told 
the housekeeper very little ; but her quick imagination, stimu- 
lated by the love of wonders and of mystery, which she shared 
with all her tribe, had suggested more. Either Clare Carew, 
shamefully wronged, or Cora Carew, baffled in an audacious 
effort at imposture, was a visitor beneath her master’s roof. In 
either case, there had been a fraud, and there was a breach of 
the bonds of sisterhood. 'What a grand match it had been ! 
And how proud, with an unselfish pride, had been the long- 
suffering servitors of the bankrupt Devon baronet. Mrs. 
Tucker herself, how had she bragged to London butchers, 
angry and unpaid ; how had she conciliated rebellious 
grocers ; and overcrowded upper servants of solvent but un- 
titled families, on the strength of that great marriage of Miss 
Clare’s. It may be that Sir Pagan’s modest household had 
obtained a meagre amount of extra credit through the reflected 
lustre of this alliance. It is certainly the duty of no bride- 
groom — not even of a rich Marquis — to settle his brother-in- 
law’s bills ; but yet there had grown up a jiazy notion that the 
improve rished baronet would somehow be set on his feet again 
by the distinguished husband of his beautiful young sister. 

But Tucker only knew that something was wrong, and had 
not the slightest idea to which side the balance of Justice 


32 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


should incline. There was, somewhere, heartless greed and 
unblushing effrontery of self-assertion. But it was difficult for 
poor Mrs. Tucker, even after her long experience of the ways 
of gentlefolks, to distinguish between brazen guilt and stricken 
innocence. Her own class would have behaved so differently ! 
She could neither have dealt nor sustained the wrong without 
hysterics, eager reiteration, voluble wrath, and vehement ap- 
peals to earth and heaven. This calm, shrinking sorrow was 
to her an enigma. 

“ If I might show you — your ladyship — your rooms — and it 
so late, and nothing ready ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Tucker, thankful 
to leave the battlefield of disputed identity and take refuge in 
safe generalities. “ It hasn’t been kept up, this house, as 
ought to be,” added the worthy woman apologetically ; “ none 
but them careless London care-takers to look to it ; and shut- 
ters up, and the moth getting into cushions and curtains till 
they might walk alive. Sir Pagan, to be sure — but he’s an out 
of door gentleman — well, miss, there is the morning room, that 
was, I am told, my lady your mother’s ; and then I was think- 
ing of the pretty blue room close by for a sleeping apartment. 
The drawing-rooms, front and back, they’re all to ruin with 
neglect and damp and moth and mildew. But the morning 
room — I told Jenny the maid to get a fire alight, and another 
in your room, miss — unless your ladyship has other commands 
to give. 

“ Thank you ! ” That was all the girl said, as she rose, 
wearily and almost mechanically, from her chair. Her sad 
blue eyes half unconsciously avoided meeting the gaze of those 
restless hazel ones which belonged to Mrs. Tucker. She went 
upstairs “ like a lamb,” as the housekeeper afterwards said, 
but perhaps as wearily as a tired lamb goes, uncomplaining, 
through the last sad stages of its journey to the shambles. 
Whichever she might be, whether scheming Cora or ill-used 
Clare, the plotter or the victim, assuredly she did not do the 
best for her young self that might have been done. With 
very little trouble, she might have gained the hearty 
loyalty of all her brother’s household— —might have made 
sincere partisans of every one of them, from the dignified 
housekeeper to the humble helper in the stables round the 
corner of the adjacent mews. But she did no such thing ; and 
when the hour of repose arrived, the verdict of the domestic 
Venmgerickt that sits in judgment on us all was still, like that 
of a Scottish jury in doubtful but suspicious cases, “ Not pro- 
ven ! ” 


ONE FALSE, BOTLT EA/E. 


33 

Very meekly did Sir Pagan’s lonely sister accept the ser- 
vices of her brother’s housekeeper ; the hot tea, that she was 
glad of; the supper, that she scarcely tasted; the crackling 
fire, grateful in the chill of a foggy London evening ; the closed 
curtains, the neatly arranged rooms. When at length her head 
was on the pillow, she could not sleep for long, long hours ; 
not until Sir Pagan himself, with flushed cheeks and tread 
unusually careful as he mounted the stairs, had come back 
from his dinner and his card-play. And when at last she sank 
into slumber, more than once her sleeping lips murmured 
softly : “ Ill-fated voyage — unlucky — oh, how I wish ” 


CHAPTER VIL 

THOSE WHO WERE LEFT BEHIND. 

The carriage having rolled away on swift wheels from be- 
fore the portico of Castel Vawr, the two ladies who were left 
behind looked somewhat wistfully into one another’s faces, 
the younger timidly, the elder with a pitying tenderness that 
perhaps had never till that day and hour softened the proud 
eyes of Lady Barbara Montgomery. There lies, deep down, 
and undreamed of by strangers, in the hearts of most women, 
even the coldest and the haughtiest, a well-spring of motherly 
kindness that waits for the touch of the magic wand to let loose 
its waters. 

“ I am very sorry, my dear — very sorry, Clare, for you,” said 
Lady Barbara in a very low voice. 

“ Thank you, dear aunt ; your kindness — is all ” — And 
then the voice of the youthful speaker was choked in her 
emotion. 

The majestic aunt of the late Marquis looked almost appre- 
hensively around her, as she somewhat stiffly extended her 
strong bony hand, to give support to the slight delicate form of 
the half -fainting girl that nestled by her side. The servants ! 
There were several, only too many, of them present ; and it is 
a golden rule and canon of conduct with members of that higher 
aristocracy to which Lady Barbara belonged, that all unseemly 
manifestations of emotion must be concealed from those who 
eat our bread and wear our livery. Lady Barbara’s own idea 


ONE FALSE, BOTH PAIR, 


34 

of the proper demeanor of a grand gentleman, and still more of 
a great lady, such as a Marchioness of Leominster, was prob- 
ably very much akin to the stern stoicism of those Red Indian 
warriors who bear the bitterest torments which their captors 
can inflict with a scornful composure that laughs at pain. But 
all of us are not of the same heroic mold ; and Lady Barbara 
felt sincere compassion for her forlorn companion. 

“Clare — my poor, dear Clare — come with me — come to 
your own rooms. They have been ready for you, ready and 
waiting for days past,” said Lady Barbara, with a wonderful 
gentleness, for her ; and she who was addressed thus, permitted 
herself to be led away. Of course the servants did not stare, 
nor did they whisper to one another, as the well trained phalanx 
in the great marbled hall of Castel Vawr broke up, like so many 
soldiers when the bugle has sounded the welcome call “ dismiss ” 
and footmen, butlers, grooms of the chamber, dispersed. But 
servants have tolerably sharp eyes where their employers are 
concerned, and Lady Barbara had not the slightest doubt that 
the young Marchioness, the strange circumstances of her arrival, 
the sudden dispute between the sisters, the abrupt departure of 
one of them, the agitation of the one who remained, would be 
discussed, and rediscussed, conned, weighed and criticised, in 
servants’ hall and stillroom, until the subject was worn thread- 
bare. It vexed her, she who was a stickler for prerogative, and 
who sorrowed always over idle gossip or newspaper tattle con- 
cerning peccant members of her own order, because it gave 
occasion for her worldly inferiors to speak evil of dignities. At 
any rate — there was one comfort in that — evOn Rumor, painted 
full of tongues, as in the days of the old Elizabethan drama, 
could not, for very dearth of accurate or minute information, 
find anything positive to say that would detract from the credit 
of the great House of Montgomery-Leominster, of which the 
headquarters were at Castel Vawr. 

The rooms that had been got ready for the widowed Mar- 
chioness were sumptuous and spacious, and did credit to the 
famous firm of decorative upholsterers who had sent in the rich 
furniture, and done aU that could be done, in a tasteful way, to 
make a bower worthy of Wilfred’s beautiful young wife. These 
were the very apartments that had been prepared, but a few 
short months ago, so it seemed, for the reception of the bride ; 
and now — 

“ I feel more wretched than before ! ” exclaimed Lady 
Barbara’s youthful companion. “Poor Wilfred — it seems but 
yesterday, and Cora, too, is^gone ; and — and — But you will 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


35 

think me foolish ! ” she exclaimed ; while the deferential house- 
keeper who stood there looked excessively embarrassed ; and 
Lady Barbara’s abigail, and Pinnett the travelling maid, threw 
sidelong glances at each other. 

‘‘ Not foolish, dear Clare,” replied the chatelaine of Castel 
Vawr, very gently, and then turned her eagle beak and bushy 
eyebrows towards the servants. — “ Lady Leominster is tired 
after her journey. I will stay with her, Mrs. Blew. When I 
ring, her maid, the Marchioness’s maid, can come.” 

Mrs. Blew the housekeeper made her reverential courtesy 
as she and Pinnett retired. 

“ I am so sorry — cut to the heart — for you, my poor, poor 
child ! ” said Lady Barbara, when those two were left alone 
together, as she folded the young girl in her arms. 

Very prettily, very gracefully, did the slender girl submit to 
that caress. “ I shall do very well, dear, good, kind Aunt Bar- 
bara,” she said in a voice that was almost steady. “Your great 
kindness, your noble strength of principle and purpose, seem 
to give me strength — to me, who need it so much,” she added 
plaintively. “ At first, just at first, the memories that these 
dear rooms called up — the recollection of my darling Wilfred — 
were almost too much for my poor powers of endurance. But 
it is Cora — my own, loved, misguided sister, that ” — 

Lady Barbara drummed indignantly with her large well- 
shaped foot upon the sofa carpet. “It was a wicked, wicked 
attempt ? ” she said, almost as a soliloquist might speak. 

But her voice was audible to the quick ears of her fair 
companion, who exclaimed eagerly : “ No, no, dearest, good 

Lady Barbara ! Do not call Cora wicked, for my sake. I know 
her — my twin sister — and indeed, indeed she is good ; and I 
love her, and grieve over her sin, and — Am I wrong and 
harsh in calling what has happened a sin, when I speak of my 
own sister ? ” she asked piteously, and with an appealing hand 
half uplifted. 

Lady Barbara, who was a head the taller of the two, bent 
stiffiy and kissed her. “ You are a noble girl — too good for this 
world, with its hollow shams and base deceits,” said Lady 
Barbara, whose eyes were dimmed by actual tears. “ Yes ; it was 
a sin ; yes ; it was mean, vile, mercenary — what I never thought 
possible on the part of any one who, like Miss Carew, although 
a commoner, was ” — 

“ Of late,” interrupted the girl, “ between my poor Cora 
and myself there has been more reticence, less frankness in our 
intercourse. My sister has seemed to me to be always preoc- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


36 

cupied, always on her guard. I have fancied — Dear Lady 
Barbara, may I speak my mind to you ? ” 

Lady Barbara signified her cordial assent. Even a normal 
share of feminine curiosity would have insured her as a willing 
listener on such a theme. " But the root principle of life was her 
loyalty to the great House from which she sprang, and nothing 
wLich affected the honor or the prosperity of the ancient Mont- 
gomery race could fail to interest her. She may have thought — 
nay, had thought — that her late nephew, the Marquis, had been 
carried too far by his admiration for a pretty face. Falcons, 
so held Lady Barbara, should mate with falcons ; and a mere 
baronet’s daughter, and — for nobody is quite consistent where 
cash is concerned — the daughter of a quasi-bankrupt baronet, 
was scarcely a fitting Lady Paramount of Castel Vawr and the 
great estate that the old lords-marchers, her own forefathers, 
had held from the Crown by tenure of lance thrust and sword 
stroke, as became their wardenship of the wild Welsh border. 
If Clare Carew had but been a Lady Clare, sprung from one of 
those pushing families that our English Elizabeth loved to pro- 
mote from the flat civic cap to the Earl’s coronet, then indeed 
would Lady Barbara have been satisfied ; but as it was, she had 
to make the best of the situation. And yet, the widowed bride 
was beautiful, gentle, and winning, while there was something 
propitiatory even in her helpless need for protection. 

“ My poor sister,” resumed the girl, in* a faltering voice, 
“ seemed changed, strangely so from what she had been when 
we embarked on board the Cyprus for our sad voyage home. 
Among our fellow-passengers was a person — a lady — a foreign 
lady of title, whom we had known, when far up the Nile, before 
my dear husband’s death. I do not like to say that Madame 
de Lalouve — Countess Louise de Lalouve, she called herself 
— forced her acquaintance upon us. But she rendered us some 
little service. She had special privileges from the Egyptian 
authorities ; knew the country and the languages well ; and 
was a bold, experienced traveller, quite unlike us two timid 
English girls ; and hence arose almost an intimacy. There was 
something fascinating, I confess, about her manner ; and her 
conversation was very amusing, for she seemed to have been 
everywhere and to know everybody.” 

“ I daresay she did,” responded Lady Barbara, with an ex- 
pressive tightening of her firm lips and an expressive arching 
of her black eyebrows. Lady Barbara had never been far- 
travelled. She had been shown Paris and the Rhine and the 
baths of Kissingen, in her gouty father’s lifetime ; and she had 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


37 


not approved of Paris ; had considered the Rhine a big over- 
rated river ; and regarded the baths of Kissingen as a penal 
settlement. ^ She had a very contemptuous estimate of foreign 
countesses in general, and was by no means preposessed in 
favor of Louise de Lalouve. 

“ I shrank myself, perhaps instinctively, from our foreign 
friend’s society,” went on the other; “ but Cora, my poor sister, 
seemed to find some fatal attraction in the woman’s pernicious 
company. She — Countess Louise, I mean — had a perplexing 
way of talking, half in jest, so as to make wrong appear right, 
and to confuse good and evil ; and this, with her sudden appear- 
ances and disappearances, and the fact that her very nationality 
was a puzzle, combined to earn for her in Egypt, the nick- 
name of the Sphinx. Somehow, Cora was always talking to 
her, and used to quote her opinions and sayings as though she 
had been an oracle indeed. During the passage to South- 
ampton the conversations between Cora and the stranger were 
very frequent ; and — I hope I am not uncharitable in saying, 
that to the counsels of this dangerous adviser may be perhaps 
attributed the dreadful resolve which at last urged Cora — dear 
erring' Cora — to — to” — Here she hid her face. 

And Lady Barbara, with honest indignation, struck in : “ Of 
course it v/as ! The miserable girl has let her weak head be 
turned by the vile promptings of this wicked adventuress — 
Frenchwoman, Russian — which did you say.? — Yes; I seek 
now. It was no madness, no caprice ; but a plot, a base, 
cowardly plot, to rob a sister of her rank and her inheritance, 
of all she owed to her dear dead husband ! ” 

“ Not all. Lady Barbara,” sobbed the girl. “The memory 
of his love, the recollection of his tender kindness — of those, 
no subterfuge could — ever — have deprived me.” 

Then Lady Barbara took the young girl in her arms, and 
kissed her, quite in a motherly way, and henceforth reconciled 
herself to the choice that her noble nephew had made. “ You 
are one out of a million, my dear ; and my poor Wilfred was 
quite right to love you as he did — quite right ! ” she said, in her 
energetic way. “ You have been shamefully dealt with — 
shamefully ! Luckily, when your sister made her audacious 
statement, Mr. Pontifex himself, who has so long managed the 
law business of the family, was here ; and I too, who have seen 
too much of the world to be very easily deceived. But you will 
be ill, dear child, with this excitement ; and indeed you have 
had neither rest nor refreshment since you came among us — a 
sorry welcome to Castel Vawr. Let us avoid exciting topics^ 


^8 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

such as we have been discussing, for the remainder of the day, 
and — ” 

“ I must win her back. I will write — I will plead with her 
not to reject my love — I must write, Aunt Barbara ! ” 

Lady Barbara looked grim. She was one of those who very 
much prefer that a sinner should suffer for his sin — that the 
taste of ashes, so to speak, should be hot and bitter to the 
mouths of those who wilfully prefer Dead Sea apples to whole- 
some fruits. But she made a concession. “ Well, Clare,” she 
made answer ; “ you shall write, of course, if you please ; and 
I will write too, to the brother and natural protector of this 
young lady. No doubt, if she repents, forgiveness can be 
promised her ; and no doubt, too, in such a case you will make 
provision for her comfort, so that she should not be a mere 
pensioner on the too scanty income of your brother Sir Pagan. 
But you will see yourself afterwards, when you have time to 
reflect calmly on what has occurred, that Miss Carew can 
scarcely be a safe or an appropriate companion for the 
Marchioness of Leominster.” 

“ I want to win her back,” was the plaintive rejoinder. 
And for the time being, the subject dropped. 

Then the bell was rung and the servants summoned. There 
was much to be done. A Marchioness of Leominster, a 
mistress of so magnificent a house as Castel Vawr, is among 
the great ones of the earth ; and as such, does not quite belong 
to herself, but is a necessary and imposing portion of the social 
machinery which befits her rank and station. Trunks had to 
be unpacked, and wardrobes arranged by deft fingers ; but 
that was a mere matter of detail, easily, if slowly, got through. 
Then tea was prepared in the French Room, so called — a marvel 
of Parisian art and taste, and soft subdued mixture of cream 
and pink and gold. Of rare art, too, were the embossed trays 
on which were the pretty, costly toys of the tea service, every 
cup of which had been a loving study for a painter worthy of 
more celebrity than the daintiest teacup can afford. Presently 
there was the ceremony of dressing for dinner, wherein Pinnett 
had the assistance of a new, younger, and perhaps over-zealous 
maid, whose highest sphere of service had been the mansion of 
a beknighted alderman, and who had come to learn the differ- 
ence between Sir Peter Pringle’s daughters and a real 
Marchioness, and was therefore anxious to justify her pro- 
motion. 

Lastly, there was dinner — a meal which, under the circum- 
stances, was about as cheerful as a funeral feast in ancient Egypt, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


39 

There was something almost portentous in the appearance of 
that vast solemn dining-room, with the grim array of historical 
portraits on the walls, long-dead ancestors and ancestresses, in 
armor or in cloth of gold or robes of state, in ruff and far- 
thingale, in hoop and satin sacque, frowning or smirking from 
the canvas on the present occupants of the great gloomy ban- 
queting hall. There was but little talk. The most persistent 
of raconteurs would have felt his spirits damped by the sur- 
roundings ; and Lady Barbara elicited little beyond monsyllables 
from her companion, who indeed seemed somewhat awed by 
the sombre splendor that surrounded her. 

“ I am so tired,” said the fair inmate of Castel Vawr, rather 
timidly, after . dinner ; and it was not very long before she 
wished Lady Barbara good-night, and retired to her own apart- 
ments, dismissing as early as she could the attendance of her 
maid. One by one, the lighted windows in the great Border 
castle grew dark, and only the clear pure moonlight shone upon 
the gray masonry and the many casements, and all was hushed. 
Perhaps the last watcher in Castel Vawr was the newly 
returned traveller herself, who, while others slept, stood long, 
unwearying, at a window of her room which commanded a 
glorious prospect of mountain, stream, and wood. “A great 
prize,” she murmured unconsciously, as her eyes bade adieu for 
the night to the moonlit landscape — a prize worth keeping.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE LAST OF THE NOBLE WILFRED. 

“ Earth to earth, dust to dust.” Solemn words are these, 
which have been repeated millions of times on the brink of the 
grave freshly dug. But there is a difference in earth, and the 
value of dust varies. The dust of the late Marquis of Leominster 
was of the more precious variety — gold dust or diamond-dust, 
so to speak — and it was to be laid to rest with becoming pomp 
and costly decorum. The yacht, with the remains of her late 
noble owner on board, had made an exceptionally good passage 
from Alexandria to Cardiff, thanks to propitious breezes and 
the vigorous aid to a relay of useful, ugly, snorting steam-tugs ; 
and a great London firm of fashionable undertakers had done 


4.6 


ONE EALSE, BOTH PAIR. 


the rest — a labor of love with them, to whom each titled client 
was an excellent advertisement. Very elaborate, and it need 
not be said very expensive, were the preparations for the 
interment. Heralds of the Earl-marshal’s official (College had 
not disdained to earn extraneous fees by giving their best 
attention to the nice adjustment of the numerous quarterings 
in the gorgeous hatchment. Afmost from the hour when 
electricity had flashed the news of the late lord’s death on 
distant Nile, the dismal purveyors for the last sad luxury that 
surrounds the rich, had set their ministering sprites to work, 
and with very good and sufficient results, remote as Castel 
Vawr is from London. 

They gave the late Marquis of Leominster a very fine 
funeral. Wales is a country where gentry, and resident gentry, 
are scarce ; and not over popular in many cases among their 
humbler neighbors, whose pride it is to regard their Squires 
as aliens, and to use the Welsh speech wherever considerations 
of money making do not interfere with Cymric sentiment. But 
even from the stony roads of Wales came many carriages to 
reinforce the muster, thrice as great, from the fertile English 
border shires. There were local magnates in numbers, who 
desired to pay a tribute of respect to the deceased chief of so 
great a house as that of Montgomery-Leominster. There were 
tenants too, and miners and field-hinds, who were moved by some 
touch of feeling, or instinct of gregariousness, or consideration 
of expediency, to be there ; and then there were inquisitive 
people who went to see the show as they would have gone to 
see any show ; so that altogether the procession was enormously 
swollen by contingents of horsemen and pedestrians. But all 
wore black, or that partial badge of mourning which with the 
needy represents the solemn suits of our ceremony loving 
ancestors ; and all preserved a serious bearing, such as due 
courtesy demanded. \ 

As to genuine grief for the dead lord, there could be little of 
that expected from any save his young widow. The late Marquis 
had not reigned long enough to leave his mark for good or ill 
on the vast landed property that he had inherited, and his 
vassals had but a vugue recollection of him as a delicate, pallid 
boy, a sickly, gentle spoken young man, credited with good 
intentions and a kind heart — credited also with being crotchety 
and whimsical. He was known to have theories and pet 
projects that he never had health and time to broach, much 
less to carry out in the tooth of the inevitable opposition that 
awaits all our projects and all our theories. Perhaps the late 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


41 


Marquis was not man enough to have carried out his schemes for 
the public welfare, generous as they no doubt were, fanciful as 
they may have been. It wants a good deal of virile force, of 
dogged pertinacity, to reform anything, even an estate or a 
village, even a turnpike trust or a Board of Guardians. But 
somehow the people around Castel Vawr had an indulgent 
feeling towards the young lord who had had so little enjoyment 
of a splendid prize he had drawn in the lottery of birth, and 
were willing to do honor to him, as well as to the mighty race 
from which he sprung. 

Yes; it was a fine funeral. Messrs. Toll and Muffle, the 
fashionable undertakers above mentioned, had paid Castel 
Vawr, the rare compliment of letting this exceptional pageant 
be, like some tours, personally conducted. “ Our” Mr. Muffle 
himself, the real head of the firm, was present ; and mutes and 
pall-bearers and coachmen, the whole black army of woe, felt 
as it were their general’s eye upon themselves in sober discipline 
and accurate attention to detail. The noble.black horses had 
never looked sleeker or prouder, with their glossy necks well 
arched, and their heavy silken names as carefully adjusted as 
the hair of a court beauty. The new ostrich plumes, in their 
silver-gilt stands, nodded in unison with the flapping velvet of 
the embroidered caparisons. There were the gilded shields on 
the hearse and on the coffin — or casket, as the Americans are 
pleased to call it — with its costly materials and deft workman- 
ship, The flag on the topmost turret of Castel Vawr floated 
half-mast high in the Welsh mountain breeze. It was a long 
line of carriages, followed by a long line of riders and foot 
people, that wound along the upland road through the park to 
that remote spot where stood the mausoleum, hard by the ruins 
of an ancient chapelry, neglected since the Reformation, where 
so many Montgomeries slept beneath massive stonework and 
behind railings of parcel gilt iron. The weather was propitious, 
without so much as a shower to smirch the bravery of the show. 
And London newspapers gave a fair half-column, and country 
journals a liberal portion of their space, to the chronicle of the 
event, much to the future benefit, in a business sense, of Messrs 
Toll and Muffle, of Killjoy Street, S.W. 

The saddest mourners are not those who take rank in the 
procession that follows the body to the grave. They are the 
women who sit at home with aching hearts, and eyes that are 
blurred and dimmed by tears, thinking ever and always of the 
lost, and believing — as women do in the single hearted, unselfish 
passion of the moment — that gnawing grief and carking care 


42 


ONE FALSE, MOTH FAIR. 


and vain regret must be their share of life henceforth ; that 
the world will never be so pleasant, the sun never shine so 
brightly again, now that the dear one is gone and the loved 
voice hushed forever. Surely it must have been hard to bear, 
that trying morning, for the fair mourner, as she sat in her 
darkened room, listening to the deep notes of the bell tolling in 
the valley below, and the sullen roar of the cannon as the 
minute-guns were fired during the march from the castle to the 
mausoleum ; for the eminent undertakers had neglected nothing 
that could enhance the impressiveness of the occasion. The 
young Lady Paramount of the place had no kinswoman of her 
own, no old friend, to bear her company ; only, for consolation, 
the brief visits of frigid Lady Barbara, whose nature was not 
over sympathetic, and whose mind was engrossed by the 
ceremonial itself, and the evidence which it afforded that the 
House of Montgomery was yet a power in the land. 

There were old friends of the family whom it behoved Lady 
Barbara to see, ere the gathering broke up. And then she 
had to speak a civil word or two to the new Marquis of 
Leominster, who had been so long known, and perhaps laughed 
at, in Pall-Mall regions as Adolphus or “ Dolly” Montgomery, 
and who had come down out of pure politeness, and because 
the undertakers seemed to expect it, and the lawyers hinted 
that it was right to be chief-mourner at the obsequies of his 
cousin — his cousin, who was barely an acquaintance. 

“ But I hardly knew him to speak to,” the new peer had said, 
deprecatingly, to his own imperious solicitor, Mr. Tape (Tape 
and Ferret, Lincoln’s Inn). 

“ There are duties, I must point out, incumbent on your 
new position, my lord,” rejoined inexorable Mr. Tape ; “ and I 
can assure you, Pounce and Pontifex, who acted for the late 
Marquis, take it as a matter of course that you should attend.” 

So, in a shy, almost apologetic manner, the present peer 
did attend, and allowed himself to be shuffled by the managers, 
so to speak, of the funeral entertainment into the post of honor, 
and then confronted the ordeal, from which he flinched, of a 
short conversation with Lady Barbara, who stiffly thanked him 
for coming there, but let him see pretty plainly that she resented 
his promotion, based as it was on the extinction of her own 
branch of the family. And the new Marquis, as he was speed- 
ing back by rail to London, felt himself a little injured, and 
but half a lord of Leominster, since he had seen stately Castel 
Vawr, that was left for life to a mere chit of a girl, and would 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


43 


probably never pass under the mastership of that mature 
bachelor whom his friends knew as “ Dolly.” 

There was a good deal of stealthly eating and drinking at the 
castle, of course, in that hospitable district, with luncheon for 
all, wine for the chief guests, ale for the miners and the peasantry 
and then the crowd dispersed as silently as rolling wheels and 
beating horse-hoofs would permit, and the sad day at length 
came to a finish. On the next, tbe flag that had floated half 
mast high on the lofty flag-turret of the old Border stronghold 
was to be hauled down altogether, for their young mistress and 
Lady Barbara were bound for London. They had written, 
according to their previously expressed intentions, to Sir Pagan 
Carew, and to that sister of his who had found shelter in the 
iiour of doubt and distress, beneath his roof in Bruton Street. 
And the young lady in her widow’s weeds almost wearied Lady 
Barbara by the frequency of her allusions to this change of 
residence as involving a prospect of reclaiming the truant. 

“ I shall win her back to me.” — “ Do you not believe. Lady 
Barbara, that Cora will come back ? ” she would say ; and the 
haughty chatelaine of Castel Vawr, looking as unbendingly 
severe as that Queen Elizabeth to whom she was thought to 
bear some resemblance, dryly said that she “ Hoped Miss Carew 
would awake to a sense of duty.” 

Next day both ladies, with servants, baggage, carriages, all 
the impediments to easy locomotion that surround the great, 
left Castel Vawr for Leominster House, London, W. 


CHAPTER IX. 

'A’ ■ 

TWO LETTERS. 

Breakfast at Sir Pagan’s dilapidated town-house in Bruton 
Street was. not a very cheerful meal. The baronet was not a 
donestic man. His custom was to eat his devilled kidney or 
his morsel of broiled chicken hastily, if with a good appetite, 
such as few London men retain ; then to scrawl a reply to such 
letters as imperatively needed one ; and then to start for the 
business of the day— the stables to visit, the horses to cheapen, 
the bets, the cards, the game at pool. Verily, some of us of 
blusst blood, and who know the inside of a counting-house only 


44 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


by hearsay, are men of business yet, and keenly eager to make 
both ends meet somehow. And of such was Sir Pagan Carew. 
His sister, who sat opposite to him, presented a marked con- 
trast to him, pale, beautiful, and slender as she was, in her 
mourning garb. She looked ill at ease, and was very silent, 
and so indeed was he, and sullen withal. Only two letters lay 
on the table, letters in coroneted envelopes, and both addressed 
to Sir Pagan, who seemed in no hurry to open them, but eyed 
them askance, as he bent his swarthy face over his plate, as 
though each of them had contained a writ of the Common Law 
division of the Supreme Court of Justice against his impecu- 
nious self. 

“ Will you not read your letters, Pagan ? ” asked the girl at 
last, as she pushed from her her almost untasted breakfast,-' 
and spoke eagerly, but with a half-timid sigh, and a flush of 
rising pink in her pale cheek. “ I think there may be some- 
thing — something about — me ! ” she added plaintively, as her 
great blue eyes turned towards her brother’s face. 

“ Oh, bother it, my dear — won’t they keep ! ” was the bar- 
onet’s bluff rejoinder, as he fidgeted uneasily in his chair. He 
was one of those men who have a genuine dislike to pen and 
ink, and who ought to have been born when a layman’s hand 
was more familiar with the sword-hilt than with goose-quill or 
pen-holder, and clerkly lore the perogative of the cloister. Ini 
very truth, though Sir Pagan’s correspondence was a tolerablyj 
extensive one, the conducting of it cost him far more pain than 
pleasure. There were some epistles that for weeks and months 
he never dared to open at all, so hateful is the persistence ofai 
dunning tradesman. There were telegrams that he tore opeij 
in feverish haste, only to learn that his reliable intelligence wa^ 
worthless, his racing “ tout” a failure, and he himself a poorc 
man, because one thorough-bred horse had cantered in an eas '■ 
winner, and another been left ignominiously in the rear-of th; 
flying squadron at Newmarket or elsewhere. 

“ No — Pagan ,• it is' for me — for my sake,” faltered thi 
sweet low voice. “I see my sister’s handwriting on one of thk 
letters, and I cannot rest until — Ah, how I wish, I wish ” — 

“ Wish, what ? ” bluntly demanded Sir Pagan, setting dow i 
his knife and fork. 

Pale, sad, and lovely, but with a set and determined expres- 
sion about the well-shaped mouth that almost contradicted th; 
timid look from those blue eyes, his sister confronted hirr. 
“There is nothing strange, Pagan dear,” she said, “in m' 
wishing that all should be again as in the dear old days, and 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


45 

that this horror had never arisen to divide us. It was all 
Owing to that artful Frenchwoman — all. Her craft and daring 
effrontery alone — But you scarcely catch my meaning, 
Pagan, and besides, it is too late now — too late ! Open your 
letterSj though, I beg. If I flinch not, why should you shrink, 
brother, from what they may contain 1 Yes, read, read ! and 
tell me quickly what they say. of me ! ” 

Thus adjured, Sir Pagan, with an impatient exclamation, 
half suppressed, tore open the letter nearest him — a letter in a 
clear, delicate feminine handwriting. He skimmed hurriedly 
its contents, drumming on the table with one muscular fore- 
finger as he did so. Then, making a wry face, as a wilful child 
might do when called upon to swallow some exceptionally nau- 
seous medicament, he opened the second and briefer of the 
two documents, the penmanship of which, stiff, cramped, and 
slightly tremulous, was unmistakably that of an elderly lady. 
He read a few lines, and a scowl darkened his brow, and a flush 
of angry red colored the pale brown of his swarthy cheek. 

“ Confound the old cat ! Why should she try her claws on 
me / ” he muttered, ruefully. “ I, for one, hate being lectured, 
even by, Very truly mine, or sincerely, is it } My Lady Bar- 
bara Montgomery, at Castel Vawr. Ah ! I don’t envy your 
sister her grand house, if she has got to take that starcfled old 
piece of austerity as one of the fixtures of it. I’ve seen her 
twice — three times, perhaps, and she assumes the privilege of 
ker age and station to rate me like a groom ‘ carpeted,’ as the 
servants call it, for misconduct. Seems to think it’s my fault 
that there’s a row in the family. Take the letters, my girl ; 
they are more in your line than mine, and see what you can 
make of them.” And as the baronet spoke, he pushed over 
the two letters towards his sister and rose abruptly from his 
chair. On the battered old sideboard stood an open case, 
whence peeped forth sundry silver-stoppered bottles. A sip — 
or a draught — of choice cherry brandy, or of some kindred 
liqueur, has been from time immemorial regarded as an indis- 
pensible adjunct of a hunting breakfast. Sir Pagan, a keen 
sportsman in his boyhood, never went hunting now, but he had 
preserved the practice of his forefathers without their reasons 
for it, and on this occasion he tossed off a couple of glasses of 
the potent spirit deftly enough. Its immediate effect was to 
soften his heart, hardening, but not hard as yet, and to render 
him more sensitive for another’s grief. After all, she was his 
sister. She was weeping now, and had utterly broken down, 
from the forced composure of her former attitude ; and her 


ONE FALSE, EOT/L EA IE. 


46 

sobs touched him even more than they teased him, for he WtlS 
English to the backbone, and scenes and sentiment were pain- 
ful to his undramatic nature. 

“ There, there, little one, don’t fret,” he said, from the depths 
of his pure, stupid good nature. “ Take my advice, and let by- 
gones be bygones. Make it square with her — a word would do 
it — and rely on it, she’ll get you.as well married as she was, be- 
fore a year’s out ; and meanwhile, think what it is to have the 
run of two such places as Leominster House and Castel Vawr, 
with such an income to pull upon ! See how kindly your sister 
writes, after all the kick up ! She asks you — begs you — to 
come to her, not in Wales but at her big London house, next 
week, and ” 

Sir Pagan was interrupted here. The girl to whom he spoke 
had been listening, as with a dulled anger, thrusting back the 
golden hair from her temples, and looking at him with eyes that 
dilated slowly. Then she sprang to her feet, and the blue eyes 
flashed, as the baronet had never seen the eyes of either sister 
flash, throughout all the years that he had known them. But 
it is wonderful hCw long uncongenial natures, brought into con- 
tact by the bonds of kindred, can dwell side by side without 
much insight into one another. This was as it were a revela- 
tion of character such as sometimes comes to enlighten us re- 
specting those of whose mental or moral calibre we had formed 
our own humdrum and perhaps depreciatory estimate. 

“ Never ! ” she gasped out. “ I enter her house — I cross her 
threshold — no, no. Pagan ! You think I am weak and silly, 
and frightened and young, and shall be bribed or scared into 
giving this up ? Never ! I tell you, brother — never ! It is a 
part of myself — it is myself ! I shall die, or I shall win ! ” 

Sir Pagan frowned, and used perhaps unnecessary violence . 
in closing his brass-mounted liqueur case, which he locked with 
care ; for the dependents of a country gentleman may emulate 
their master in a taste for strong and costly stimulants, and the 
Bruton street baronet was not rich enough to leave temptation 
in the way of his underlings. Then he turned to his guest, and 
with rough kindness, said, — “ Fight it out, my dear, as you two 
like and choose. I’m sorry — very,” he added hurriedly, as he 
caught sight of the tear stained young face, so beautiful, so des- 
olate ; “but you’ve a home with me, remember,as long as there’s a 
crust — I’m going out now, and I don’t suppose you will see 
much of me till dinner time. I’m not engaged, and shall be 
back by then. And, and if you want anything — of course there’s 
old Tucker.” 


OMR RAISE, BOTH FAIlt 


47 

So he made his escape, and his sister was left alone. There 
before her lay the letters, and she read them carefully. One of 
them began thus, — 

“ My dear Brother, — You will know how desolate and sad 
I feel, and how much my grief for the loss of my kind husband 
was renewed by my return to the home that once was his. I 
did not think any other sorrow could have touched me then ; but 
a pain almost as bitter has come to sting my heart. As well as 
a dear husband, I have lost a darling sister. But only for a 
time, as I hope and trust and believe, only for a time, I know, 
of course, that Cora, poor, dear, misguided Cora, has taken ref- 
uge with you ; and I write to beg you to persuade my wilful, 
dearly loved sister to give up the wild scheme which she has 
rashly adopted, at the instigation, as I firmly believe, of an 
intriguing Frenchwoman. I hope, dear brother, you will use 
your influence with her, and tell her to come back to me. We 
shall be in London next week, at Leominster House. Say that 
I pray her to come back, and live with me as before, and be, as 
she has always been, my loving sister as of old. Tell her she 
need fear no reproaches from me, that this shall pass away like 
the memory of an evil dream, and she and I be, as we always 
were, together. I leave this in your hands, dear brother. — 
Your loving sister, 

“ Clare Leominster.” 

The other letter was to this effect, — 

“ Dear Sir Pagan, — A strong sense of duty alone induces me 
to pen these few lines to you. The outrage to the memory of 
my dear nephew, the late Marquis, and I may say to the 
family of which he was the chief, is one which I should have 
preferred to have consigned to oblivion, if possible. But the 
lenity and, in my opinion, mistaken indulgence with which my 
niece the Marchioness persists in regarding her erring sister, 
renders it incumbent on me also to urge upon you the pro- 
priety of convincing this most unhappy young lady of the error 
of her ways. I am sure that you must yourself feel that this is 
necessary for the avoidance of any scandal which might, even 
indirectly, reflect upon the honor of my family, with which your 
sister has by marriage become connected. Trusting that you 
will see the necessity of this, and that your authority may be 
used to cause the return of your sister to her duty, I remain, 
dear Sir Pagan, very truly yours. 


“ Barbara Montgomery.' 


48 


ONE FALSE, FOTlL FAIR. 


She who fead these lines remained long, as in a state of Itl^ 
tellectual torpor, with her eyes resting on the letters that lay 
before her on the table, although her thoughts were far away. 
She was disturbed from this reverie at length by the entrance 
of the servant who came to remove the breakfast things ; and 
then, snatching up the two letters and refolding them, she went 
upstairs to the apartments that had been allotted to her. As 
soon as the door of her own room was shut behind her, she ex- 
claimed, with clenched hand and glittering eyes, — “ They do 
not know me ! No ; I will go through with it to the last ! 


CHAPTER X. 

AT LEOMINSTER HOUSE. 

Very many Londoners who boast their intimate knowledge 
of the ins and outs of London, and especially of that West End 
which is a glorified adjunct to the ancient city of King Lud, 
would be puzzled to identify the exact locality of Leominster 
House. And yet the grand old mansion, coyly hiding behind 
its massive walls in a gloomy street of Mayfair, is well worth 
seeing, when its wide gates open to give some carriage egress, 
if only for the sake of its superb frontage, designed by Inigo 
Jones, and as yet unspoiled by climate or the restorer. Very 
big, stately, and perhaps melancholy, like some other town 
residences of the higher aristocracy, was this great old house, 
which had been built among green fields, long ago swallowed 
by encroaching brick and mortar, and the once famous gardens 
of which are represented by the modern Montgomery Street 
and Place and Leominster Street, which stand where once 
maids of honor in hoops and powder, paint and patches, flirted 
with courtiers in blue and silver, in pink and gold, with laced 
hats, richly hiked swords, and clouded canes. It would have 
needed, as in the old days of ostentatious housekeeping, an 
army of gorgeous footmen, and a bevy of visitors in the gay 
apparel of former times, to have enlivened the sombre 
stateliness of the enormous house, or the tomblike silence that 
seemed natural to it. There had not been much feasting 
within those walls for some years past. Lady Barbara could 
remember solemn hospitality, on a princely scale, but some- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


49 

what ponderous withal, to have been exercised there in her 
father’s time. But her brother had hated the place, and indeed 
had spent his leisure and his revenues for the most part in 
Cannes, Como, Naples ; while the late lord’s short reign and 
sickly health had not been consistent with much enjoyment of 
London society. 

In a large, sadly splendid room, one of a suite of sadly 
splendid rooms, that were reached by traversing an inner hall, 
paved with marble, and a ghostly corridor carpeted with red, 
reclined the newly arrived mistress. There was something 
touching in the contrast between the cold stateliness of the 
magnificent house and the helpless attitude and air of extreme 
youth and childlike innocence which distinguished her to 
whom all beneath that roof were bound to yield obedience. 
Dressed in the deepest mourning as she was, her graceful 
figure seemed the more slender because of the clinging black 
robes, the gloomy hue of which set off the purity and beauty 
of her almost dazzling complexion, and the sheen of her golden 
hair. The likeness to the absent sister would have been very 
striking, had any one been there who had known the two in 
days when Clare and Cora were together and poor ; but this 
one looked calmer and more placid than the other in Bruton 
Street had been seen to look since first, under the lawyer’s 
care, she sought the shelter of her brother’s insolvent dwelling. 
Lady Barbara Montgomery, rigid and upright in a tallbacked 
chair, sat like a guardian dragon opposite to the mistress of the 
mansion. A severe expression was on her firm lips and in her 
austere eyes, and there was displeasure in the ring of her voice 
as she said : “ It admits, to my mind, of no extenuation, Clare, 
my dear. Neither your brother nor your sister — excuse me — 
has behaved as I had a right to expect. Sir Pagan has 
positively not paid me the compliment of sending an answer 
to the letter I addressed to him.” 

“ Perhaps,” answered the other timidly— “ perhaps Pagan . 
did not know what to say.” 

“ It is possible, when the subject of discourse turned on 
topics less congenial than a horse or a dog,” returned Lady 
Barbara in a voice that quivered with suppressed anger— for 
the chatelaine of Castel Vawr, though too old to entertain 
modern theories of women’s rights, had very strong ideas of 
her own, as a born Montgomery of the long titled branch of 
that most ancient stem— “ that Sir Pagan Carew might find 
himself at a loss for a befitting method of expressing his 
sentiments. But he might have remembered that the common- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


50 

est rules of courtesy demand that a gentleman should be at 
least polite to a lady.” 

Now, this was precisely — though Lady Barbara did not 
know it — what poor Sir Pagan did remember. The recollection 
of her letter cost the miserable young baronet many a twinge, 
during those nightly musings that we all have, and wherein so 
many uncomfortable facts are marshalled up against our peace 
and serenity. “ How can I answer that high-bred old cat at 
Castel Vawr ? ” was a question that Sir Pagan often asked 
himself, as he shifted to and fro on his uneasy pillow ; and it 
was a query that took precedence frequently of pressing ques- 
tions as to stakes and entries, hedging upon racehorses, 
meeting “ that bill ” at Moss’s in Cursitor Street, and raising 
the snug three hundred — part wine, part pictures, part cash — 
from Mr. Aaron in Windmill Street, Playmarket. Sir Pagan 
was to the backbone a gentleman. But the brokendown 
Devonshire baronet had never been schooled in the ways of 
the feminine world. Men, he understood pretty well. But of 
women of fashion he knew strangely little ; and of such 
majestic survivals of a former state of things as Lady Barbara, 
he stood in awe, not unmingled with repugnance. Several 
times he tried to pen a reply to her magniloquent epistle, but 
gave it up for the moment. And so it fell out that the task 
of answering Lady Barbara was insensibly if unwillingly 
relinquished. 

“ Poor Pagan ! he scarcely ever wrote a line in his life 
either to Cora or to me,” said Lady Barbara’s companion, very 
gently. “ It is of her, not of him, that I am thinking, ah ! so 
often, and so sadly.” 

“ But your sister has likewise left your letter unreplied to,” 
returned Lady Barbara, with extra lines of severity about her 
hard mouth. 

“ Poor Cora, poor misguided girl ! Yes ; she is headstrong 
in her error.” 

“ You should say, Clare, obstinate in her sin,” interrupted 
Lady Barbara impatiently. 

“ Not when I speak of Cora — not where my sister is 
concerned,” answered the beautiful young mistress of the 
house, with a sweet firmness that became her well. “ I can 
never be harsh, never unkind in word or thought, when it is of 
Cora that there is question. It is not as if she were really — 
bad-hearted, dear Aunt Barbara. She is a mere dupe, a poor 
misled thing, and if I could only see her •” 

At this moment a deferential interruption occurred, as a 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


51 

groom of the chambers, salver in hand, entered with a note for 
the younger of the two ladies. 

“ At last ! ” exclaimed Lady Barbara, while the color of 
the young lady went and came, as with trembling hand she 
took the letter. Neither of the two ladies doubted that the 
absent sister had at length sent the long expected reply. The 
groom of the chambers, who bore a close external resemblance 
to a dean, slid away again, on noiseless feet as he had come, 
and closed the door. Meanwhile the recipient had time to 
scrutinize the note which she held between her fingers. Her 
heart gave one convulsive bound, and then ceased to beat — so 
it seemed — and she grew white to the very lips. She did not 
open the letter, however. “ You seem in no hurry, Clare, my 
love,” said Lady Barbara, in that admonitory tone which old 
people, in the days of her own youth, had been wont to adopt 
towards young people who were tardy or slack in fulfilling the 
requirements of their elders. Lady Barbara was anxious to 
know what the truant could possibly have to say for herself. 
Could the letter be a renewal of the old audacious effort at 
imposture, or was it a mere confession and whimpering plea 
for mercy and forgiveness ? 

“ It is a mistake. It is not from Cora at all — nor from my 
brother. It has nothing to do with that sad affair,” was the 
reply, in a voice that was not quite so steady as its beautiful 
owner wished it to be. 

“ But then ” interjected Lady Barbara, half interroga- 

tively. 

‘‘ I have said that it is nothing— a trifle,” replied the other, 
almost peevishly, as she thrust the note, unopened, into the 
midst of a litter of tiny trivial objects that lay upon the table 
at her side. “ It is a disappointment,” she added, smiling 
slightly ; “ for I, like you, had hoped that Cora had 
written.” 

Lady Barbara’s foot drummed on the velvet carpet, and her 
eyebrows expressed displeasure as eloquently as ever broad 
black, well-arched eyebrows can have done since the world was 
a world. The nOble spinster had cherished certain half-formed 
designs of “ being a mother to the youthful widow,” so 
strangely left forlorn and rich. Lady Barbara was not in the 
least consciously selfish in thus proposing to herself a quasi- 
maternal mentorship over so very well endowed an orphan as 
the young Lady Leominster. It was not the latter’s purse- 
strings over which she desired to establish a control. She had 
an iricome of her own that was large enough to leave an annual 


52 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


surplus. But she dearly loved power, and her unexpressed 
wish was that the border castle and the London mansion and 
the revenues that went with them should be managed according 
to her, Lady Barbara’s, notions of what was right. She wished 
her nephew’s wife to justify his choice by turning out a model 
Marchioness, and regulating her actions and choosing her 
friends according to right rule and sage opinion. But it is 
difficult to assume unasked the character of guide to one with 
whom there has been no early familiarity ; and sweet as the 
girl’s temper unquestionably was, Lady Barbara had an 
instinctive feeling that she was not one of those weak members 
of the sex who are ready to yield sheep-like obedience to the 
first social or domestic tyrant who chooses to demand it. Lady 
Barbara, then, restrained the impulse to inquire concerning the 
origin of the note just received. 

“ I was thinking of going out. There are one or two places 

I want to go to, and then I could take a turn in the Park 

before driving home again. The air would do you good, Clare, 
dear. Will you come with me ? ” said she as suavely as she 
could. 

“ 1 should prefer to stay at home to-day. I am tired, 

and besides, I wish to write to Cora,” answered the other 

gently. 

Lady Barbara had been used to hear her suggestions treated 
as royal commands. She frowned and looked doubly austere 
as she rang the bell and ordered the carriage. Then she went 
to attire herself for her outing ; and still her young companion 
sat motionless, almost in a crouching attitude, in her chair, her 
slender white hand resting listlessly on the tiny table beside 
her, whereon stood a vase that held a lily, and a heap of Society 
journals, photographs, and so forth, as well as a small 
enamelled workbox, over the edge of which peeped bright 
skeins of floss-silk and glittering beads and the implements of 
some slight feminine industry. Close by this box the unopened 
note had been, as if carelessly, pushed, and there it lay. It 
was not till the carriage with Lady Barbara had fairly rolled 
out of the courtyard, that a strange change came over the 
countenance of the young lady, as she took up the hitherto 
neglected letter, and tearing it open, set herself to the task of 
perusing its contents. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FA/A\ 


S3 


CHAPTER XL 

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 

Once, twice, thrice, she read the letter — she, mistress of 
Castel Vawr and Leominster House ; carefully, slowly, she 
read over every line and syllable of the mysterious note which 
had been handed to her by the groom of the chambers. She 
had an excellent memory, and, from the first, the words she 
read had, as it were, burned themselves into her brain, so that 
they could never be forgotten, yet she read them attentively 
again and again. It was a slender little letter, highly per- 
fumed, sealed with a big seal, on which was the impression of 
a coronet — a foreign coronet. Foreign, too, were the wax, the 
envelope, the glossy paper, and the tenacious, musky scent 
that clung to all, like a weighty atmosphere of incense. The 
note was couched in the French language. We may venture 
on a free translation : 

Dear Madame the Marchioness — I am in town. You 
are in town. That says all. We shall meet, and solace our- 
selves in friendly, if too saddened, recollections of the past, of 
communings and hours spent together among the Pyramids 
and Painted Galleries of Luxor, or beneath the withered palm- 
leaves of the Desert. Do not be surprised that I know so well 
your movements. No demon has unroofed for me your lordly 
chateau — I pine to see it ; but, alas ! one’s day-dreams are 
rarely gratified — of Castel — I tremble as I write the barbarous 
word — Castel Vawr. But the English newspapers, so loyal to 
your illustrious aristocracy, keep us poor foreigners an courant 
as to the dates of your arrivals and departures. Do you know, in 
Kensington Gardens, a group of elm-trees great and ancient, on 
a sort of sandy mound, where few are to be seen but nursemaids 
and little children, and a few scarlet warriors of your Queen’s 
Guard ? There, from five to-day, I shall await your coming in 
all confidence. Yours, in affectionate regard, 

Louise de Lalouve. 


Ver>^ carefully, if very quickly, the young lady concluded 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


54 

the third perusal of this letter ; and then she carefully refolded 
it, glanced at the ornamental clock over the chimney-piece, 
and compared the tale it told with that of her own watch ; and 
then she seemed to form a quick mental calculation as to time. 
Lady Barbara was gone, fairly gone. The large barouche, 
with the strawberry leaves adorning the coronet on its privileged 
panels, had rolled off into the hum and stir of the streets and 
the Park, all alive with the pleasure-seeking life of mighty 
London. Now was the time to act. Crushing up the letter 
in her hand, she rose from her silken seat and glided away up- 
stairs. Our British aristocracy has this advantage over the 
rival nobility of Russia, that its members can traverse their 
own halls and abbeys and castles without encountering, save 
accidentally, the unwelcome scrutiny of prying eyes. In Russia, 
a great lady. Princess or Countess, is attended by many ser- 
vants, who seem to sleep or keep vigil outside her chamber 
door, like disciplined sentries at their post, and who rise from 
their crimson benches to bow, and murmur, “ Your Excellency 
— Baiuscha,^’ whenever the noble mistress of the mansion goes 
by. When she of Leominster went up the broad marble stairs 
to her own room, she met nobody ; and she dressed herself, as 
she had often done in humbler days, rapidly, and without re- 
quiring the services of the handmaidens that she might have 
summoned by laying her finger on the bell. In a few minutes, 
dressed in monrning weeds, and closely veiled, the young mis- 
tress of the mansion glided down the palatial stairs, threaded 
the spacious corridors, passed through the huge marble hall, 
and was soon outside.^ and launched, alone and on foot, into 
the roaring current of London life. 

Clare Carew and her sister Cora, reared far off in remote 
Devon, had had very little experience of our modern Babylon 
the Great. A rare peep at the metropolis was all that could 
be looked for by the children of a needy Devonshire baronet, 
and it was wonderful that this young girl proved her knowl- 
edge of western London as she did. But the art of finding 
one’s way comes by nature. Some of us may blunder, shame- 
faced, forever, among lanes and streets, where others hit off as 
if by magic the exact route to be followed. The lady we write 
of was of the latter variety. Shunning the more crowded 
thoroughfares, avoiding observation, so far as it was possible 
to avoid it, she soon reached Kensington Gardens. 

There, on a sandy mound, soared aloft the giant elms — 
vast old trees, that had perhaps seen Oliver Cromwell’s cuiras- 
siers career round the “ Military Park ” of the Common- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


55 

wealth, and that had certainly looked down on Sir John Fen- 
wick and the luckless Duke of Monmouth as they ruffled it 
among the blood and fashion of a later day. Under those 
trees, on a knoll a little apart, stood a tall figure, graceful, 
erect, no other than that of Louise, Countess de Lalouve. 
That lady came forward, and with a gracious inclination of her 
head that would have done honor to a royal reception, held 
out a large hand, the glove whereon, many-buttoned, of sup- 
plest kid, fitted exquisitely well. Ma chere Marquise I '' 
all she said ; but she managed, as Frenchwomen and Russians 
can, to put an expression into the words that suggested much. 

“You wrote to me, dear Countess,” said the other hurriedly 
but replying in the same language as that in which her former 
acquaintance had begun the conversation ; “ and you see I am 
here.” 

“ How neatly you speak French, dearest,” returned the 
Sphinx, with what seemed sincere commendation. “ Your ac- 
cent, without boastfulness, you learned from me ; but your 
pretty grammar, that is quite your own ; really, it would satisfy 
the Faubourg St-Germain. Most of your countrywomen speak 

a jargon, believing it to be French of Paris, which But 

never mind ! Is it not time that we two should understand 
each other ” 

There was a pause. The foreign Madame surveyed the 
English lady with great dark burning eyes. The blue eyes of 
her whom she addressed were turned earthwards. Presently 
they looked up, and frankly confronted those of the foreign 
lady of title. “That you mean well and kindly, dear, good 
Madame de Lalouve, I am very certain,” she said ; “ that you 
know I am in trouble, I can guess too. My sorrow springs 
from a very unexpected quarter. My dear, dear sister” — and 
here she hid her face, but went on, after a pause — “ my own 
loved Cora, has been lured away by the glitter of wealth and 
rank, till she has forgotten her twin sister’s love, forgotten 
honor and truth ; and — and — Countess, how can I tell you — at 
the moment of our arrival at my dear dead husband’s house, at 
Castel Vawr, she ” 

“Ah! what did she do?” asked ihe Russo- Frenchwoman, 
with keen curiosity and a flash of her black eyes. 

“ She claimed to be ” — gasped out the speaker — “ to be, 
not Cora, but Clare — poor Wilfred’s wife — the Marchioness of 
Leominister ; and no tears, no prayers, no reasonings could 
make her swerve from the wicked obstinacy ot her assertion.” 

“It w^s monstrous,” said Countess Louise, never remoy' 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


56 

ing her fiery eyes from the beautiful blanched face on which 
they looked. “ What ! the Lady Barbara was there ; and the 
notary — family lawyer — and ” 

“ How, you know it ? ” asked the other, surprised. 

“ I know most things. I am the Sphinx, am I nbt "i ” re- 
turned the foreign lady, with one of her meaning nods. “ Never 
think, my Lady Leominster, that you are alone, unseen. You 
great English folks live in houses of glass.” She hissed out 
these last words with passionate sibilant earnestness ; and in- 
deed, as she towered over the small fair-haired girl, she looked 
much like one of the great serpents of India, upteared, with 
horrent head and menacing eye, ready to strike. 

But she whom she thus seemed to menace merely answered: 
“ Do you know, dear Countess, that even before your note 
reached me, I had been wondering how I could seek you out — 
how I could see you, and talk with you, and induce you, if you 
only would, to use your influence, so great, I know, over my 
poor lost sister Cora.” 

“ Over your — poor — lost — sister — Cora ! ” repeated the 
foreigner, with cruel emphasis. “ Bon ! Miladi the Marquise, 
why, with all your grand friends around you, with Lady Barbara, 
so sympathetic, at your side, have recourse to me — to me, a 
poor stranger here in your lordly London, and suspected, as 
all of us are who are not of insular birth, as if we were refugees 
in dread of the police — why come to me, when it is a question 
of Mademoiselle Cora, your sister ? ” 

“Because,” pleaded the other, “you were so intimate to- 
gether, dear Madame de Lalouve, and, when I was beside my 
poor Wilfred, acquired her confidence and her admiration, as 
you did, far off in Egypt. Because you are so clever. Because 
Cora w'ould hearken to you, and ” 

“ You are clever too — very clever,” muttered the foreign 
Countess, with a flash of her burning eyes and a lifting of her 
expressive shoulders. 

“ Do help me, dear Countess Louise, dear friend ; do try 
to get Cora to give up this mad, girlish fancy, which has led 
her to wreck the happiness of both, for a mere dream,” said 
Clare imploringly. “Advise her, urge her to be true to me, 
true to herself, to come back to me, and trust her future to me*, 
and indeed — Countess — the dear girl should never know an 
instant of reproach or blame. I myself should be the first 

to shield her—from ” And here she was forced to conceal 

her emotion. 

^‘Upon my word,” exclaimed Madame de Lalouve, with 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


57 

what seemed a genuine ring of approbation in her voice, “ you 
are a very remarkable — young lady. I had my own notions of 

Englishwomen, but Never mind! Do you know what your 

sister has done to you ? ” 

“ She tried ” 

“ Tried to rob you of name, wealth, title, identity — a rob- 
bery most base, heartless, cruel, and deliberate,” said Madame 
de Lalouve severely ; “ and this to you, unoffending — to you, 
her twin sister ; and you would forgive her, and you would 
have me use my influence, if I have any, to bring her back. — 
What should I be myself the better for that ? ” She asked this 
so abruptly that the compression of her thin lips resembled 
the sudden snap of a rat-trap. 

“ I should be so grateful ! ” murmured the other, timidly. 

“ I have lived long enough to know what an idle word is 
gratitude,” retorted the foreign lady, bitterly. “ Those who 
have climbed, kick aside the marche-pied as no longer needed. 
Why should I care whether one sister or another wins in an 
affair which would have been settled of old by dagger and 
poison ; but here, in the England of your nineteenth century, 
must be fought out in the law-courts ? What is it to me } 
What, in fact, have I to gain by it ? ” 

The question was fiercely put. It was steadily answered. 

“ Much ! ” answered the girl, looking into the fiery eyes of 
her Egyptian acquaintance with eyes that were able to meet 
her own with equal courage, as if the light of truth shone in 
them — “ much ! My gold — and I have much of it, I believe — 
is dross to me, compared with a sister’s love. I am rich, they 
tell me. My gratitude, Madame, shall be solid and substan- 
tial, if only you will help me to get back my lost darling, to 
persuade poor Cora that ” 

“ Compris ! Your hand upon it ! ” cried the Russo-French- 
woman, suddenly stretching out her own. “ Come ; let us be 
frank !. cartes stir table. We ought to understand each other.” 

“ I think we do,” answered the other, and again their eyes 
met. “ This, is my brother’s address in Bruton Street,’’ she 
added hastily, as she pressed a piece of written paper into her 
friend’s hand ; “ there you will find poor Cora. /Use your in- 
fluence ; be her good angel, in a word ; and when you have 
news, we will meet again. Now, as you understand, I must 
hurry back. Adieu ! ” 

“ Adieu ! You are worthy to be Lady Leominster,” mut- 
tered the swarthy Countess as they parted. 

Half an hour afterwards, the beautiful mistress of Leo- 


ONH PALSE, BOTH PA/B. 


S8 

minster House, divested of her walking attire, was again sit- 
ting, half-crouched, in her low arm-chair, when Lady Barbara’s 
carriage returned, and that stately she-dragon of aristocracy 
sailed into the room, not in the best of tempers. . 

“ Still here, my dear ! ” she said. “ I think, if you had 
come with me, it would have been pleasanter.” 

“ Perhaps,” said the girl, smiling. 

“ I am certain of it,” said Lady Barbara dictatorially. The 
few old friends she had called on had been from home ; she 
had seen no one in the Park worth bowing to ; the frivolity of 
the younger generation had revolted her, as it always did. She 
had come back even more out of temper than when she sallied 
forth. Then came the tea-drinking, the long evening, the late 
dinner, solemn, stately, and which went on almost in dumb- 
show, so slight was the conversation at that sumptuous board. 

“ You never told me, Clare, love, who was your mysterious 
correspondent } ” said Lady Barbara, with a clumsy affectation 
of playfulness, before they went to bed. But the other coldly 
made answer that it was a mere nothing — a note from a lady 
whom she had known abroad, and who happened to be passing 
through London ; and then Lady Barbara felt that she had 
neither the right nor the power to pursue the subject further. 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN REGENT STREET. 

It was the noontide of London life, the time when idlers 
and toilers, the great and the gay, and those who are neither 
gay nor great, but none the less important memoers of the 
social hive, swarm abroad among the buzzing streets ; while 
the dull, never-ceasing roar of wheels and trampling feet and 
human voices blend in the deep dissonant chorus that a great 
city sends forth, floating on the summer air. Before one of the 
well-known shops in a gay thoroughfare stood a carriage, on 
the panels of which gleamed the strawberry-leaves of a 
Marquis ; but what attracted most notice was the exceeding 
beauty of its solitary occupant, a slender graceful girl, dressed 
in black, and whose bright hair flashed golden in the sunshine. 

“ Who is she ? — Why, Hicks, my dear fellow, the very arms 


ONE EALSE, BOTH FAIT. 


59 

on the carriage-door might tell you that much,” said one self- 
sufficient lounger, in answer to a whispered inquiry from a 
friend, new to London, who walked by his side, and who 
evidently regarded his town-bred Mentor as an oracle. “ That’s 
young Lady Leominster, of course — the Marchioness, don’t you 
know ? so early left a widow. Pretty creature, isn’t she ? and 
enormously rich, as I happen to know. Saw something of 
them, the Leominsters, up the Nile ; and came home, too, in 
the same ship with her and a charming sister. Miss Carew, 
from Egypt ; and I can assure you — ” And then the speaker, 
who was no other than little Ned Tattle, passed out of earshot; 
and the rest of his communication, accurate or fanciful, as to 
the circumstances, characters, and prospects of the Marchioness 
and her sister, reached no one save his companion. 

The lady whose prospects were thus being discussed had 
not seen, or at least had not recognized, her former fellow- 
passenger Tattle ; indeed, her beautiful eyes took little heed, 
in their dreamy gaze, as if into the far past or the farther 
future, of the passers-by. There was a sad and wistful expres- 
sion in her face, and there was something almost touching, too, 
in the marked contrast between her listlessness and the proud 
position to which her rank and wealth and beauty gave her an 
undisputed claim. There was a very great income and vast 
hereditary influence at her disposal. She was young and noble; 
and she was free, as free as any girl, to give her hand where her 
heart should accompany the gift ; or if she chose, to reign sole 
mistress of Castel Vawr and its wide domains. 

It was plain that she had no personal interest in the fact 
that her barouche stood opposite to the renowned Regent 
Street shop, for her companion Lady Barbara had just quitted 
the carriage to enter it. No obsequious male satellite of 
Messrs. Show and Squandercash came bustling deferentially to 
the carriage-door to exhibit shawls, or to hand in ecrtns of jewels 
likely to tempt a customer so solvent. It was clearly not on 
her own account that the mistress of Leominster House and 
Castel Vawr remained a fixture in that crowded thoroughfare. 

Presently, along the Regent Street pavement, there came, 
with measured tread, the figure of a young man, tall and manly 
and handsome, with a face, browned by a hotter sun than that 
of Britain ; no other, in fact, than Arthur Talbot of Oakdene in 
Hampshire. With a start of surprise, and a glad look in his 
thoughtful, steady eyes, Arthur Talbot came up to the carriage, 
lifting his hat as he did so. “ This is quite an unexpected 
pleasure to me,” he said, as his eyes met hers. 


6o 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


The young lady raised herself a little from her listless 
lounging attitude. A sudden change came over her face, and 
there was no softness in her eyes and no cordiality in her tone 
as she said. coldly : “Ah, Mr. Talbot — you here — in London !” 
while at the same time she slowly surrendered her little hand 
to the young man’s eager grasp. 

A sort of chill, as if an icy wind had suddenly begun to 
blow, came over Arthur Talbot as he noted the coldness of his 
reception. What had he done, that his friend’s young widow, 
his own girl-friend, to whom he had rendered many a willing 
service in far-off Egypt, should be thus frigid in her greeting ? 
He had never transgressed on the strength of that old intimacy 
in a country where travelling Europeans are of necessity thrown 
much together, and had never forgotten the respect he owed to 
her grief and her unprotected state and poor Wilfred’s memory. 
That she had never really loved, as lovers love, the late Mar- 
quis, admirably as she had done her duty by him, and much as 
she mourned his loss, Arthur more than suspected ; yet he 
deduced his conviction more from what his dead friend had 
told him, than from anything he had ever gleaned from the 
words or manner of his wife. How well he could remember 
that day, among the painted tombs of Luxor, when the sisters 
were away, under the charge of the voluble dragoman, and in 
Madame de Lalouve’s company, among the storied wonders of 
the Sacred Isle, and he and the young dying lord sat together, 
looking out over the waters of the Nile ! 

“ 1 was a selfish fool — ^yes, a selfish fool — to attach that 
poor child’s fortunes to mine, as some skiff might be fastened 
to a sinking ship.” Such had been Wilfred’s words, as he 
gazed with wan eyes over the great river. “ She never loved 
me, never learned to know what love is.” 

“And yet — ” Arthur Talbot had begun, deprecatingly, but 
in an embarrassed manner, for it was an awkward subject on 
which to talk. 

“And yet she is not mercenary, you would say — did not, as 
the phrase is, marry me for my money, Arthur,” interrupted the 
young lord, a slight flush rising to his pale cheek. “No, 
Talbot ; I know that she did not. I doubt if she ever really 
understood how great, in a pounds, shillings, and pence point 
of view, was the prize which others envied her for drawing in 
the matrimonial lottery. But, poor child, she had a joyless 
home ; and no mother, no elder sister, to counsel her, and was 
of a plastic nature ; and so, I fear, said ‘ Yes ” to the first man 
of sufficient rank and station who urged her — for I did urge 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


6i 


her — to marry him. It was wrong of me — was it not ? for even 
then I felt that I was doomed ; but we are all very self-seeking 
and egotistical ; and I feel, now that it is too late, as if I had 
done poor Clare a wrong.” 

How strangely do such words, spoken by lips now silent for 
ever, recur to our recollection when we look upon the faces of 
those whom they concern ! Arthur Talbot was too true and 
noble a gentleman to have divulged a syllable of his dead 
friend’s confidence. And although he had come to learn that 
the widowed lady was inexpressibly dear to him, and though he 
had been presumptuous enough to think, now and again, that 
she did care for him — a little ; yet a sense of delicacy and pity 
for her position had restrained any open declaration of love as 
unbeseeming and unworthy. And yet, for all that, Arthur 
Talbot knew that he loved Clare of Leominster, and thought— 
though he was too sensible to be vain — that he was anything 
but indifferent to her. Now — now that they were away from 
Egypt and the ship, and the incidents of travel — now that they 
met in London, something in the lady’s manner puzzled and 
saddened him. She was prouder, colder, more self-reliant than 
the girl-widow that he remembered so tenderly as clinging to 
his strong arm among the palm-trees and under the green-blue 
sky of the semi-tropic Nile Valley. They were on neutral 
ground now ; and though their parting at Southampton was 
comparatively as yesterday, how changed did she appear — how 
very much more of the great lady, and how much less of the 
sweet young sorrowful thing that he had learned to love. And 
yet she looked sorrowful too, and her melancholy eyes rebuked 
him. 

“ I am waiting for Lady Barbara, who is making purchases 
in that shop — for Lady Barbara Montgomery, my aunt ; or at 
least ” — and here the fresh young voice faltered, but then went 
steadily on — “ my husband’s aunt, of whom, I think, Mr. Talbot, 
you must have heard. She is a great comfort to me now. We 
live together. You know her, perhaps ? ” 

“ Only by name and by report,” answered Talbot, smiling ; 
“ as, I daresay. Lady Barbara may be acquainted, after a 
fashion, with my unworthy self.” 

“ Here she comes. I shall be glad to introduce you.” 

Lady Barbara, when Arthur was presented to her, was 
gracious, and even cordial, in her grand Elizabethan fashion of 
grace and cordiality. 

“ Mr. Talbot, I know your name so well, and have heard so 
much in your praise, from — from one to whom we were both 


62 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FA LB. 


attached, that I feel as if we were quite old friends ; and as a 
friend, if you please, and no mere acquaintance, I shall persist, 
with your permission, in regarding you.” And the old aristo- 
cratic spinster spoke the words with such evident sincerity and 
such conscious dignity of demeanor, that Talbot could not help 
being impressed by them. Good manners, grand manners, are 
a fleeting inheritance of a past age, when more heed, perhaps, 
was attached to form than to substance, to the specious outside 
than to the soundness of the core. But Lady Barbara — as 
good and true-hearted a woman, prejudice apart, as ever trod 
the earth — had got them, and therefore was able to speak her 
mind weightily when she pleased, without making herself ridic- 
ulous in the process. 

“ I, too, feel as if we were old friends. Lady Barbara,” said 
Arthur, in his deep frank voice, while his thoughtful eyes met 
those scrutinizing ones that were bent on him ; and Lady 
Barbara, a severe judge of w^omen, but, what is rare among her 
sex, a harsh and Rhadamanthine censor of men, was satisfied 
by what she saw, pleased, too, by what she heard. It seemed 
to her, at any rate, that her nephew had made a good choice in 
his friend — the friend of whom she had heard so much praise 
— and that the young Squire of Oakdene was neither a fool nor 
a fop. We know that Lady Barbara had regarded the late 
Marquis’s love-match with no especial approbation. It had 
been, in her judgment, a piece of boyish caprice, the indulgence 
of an idle fancy, since no money and no aristocratic alliance 
had accrued to the House of Leominster in consequence of the 
marriage. In point of mere heraldry and genealogy, all was 
well, of course, for the Carews were of prehistoric descent ; 
but Lady Barbara was not without the curious prejudice of 
many who are born to hereditary honors in these our islands, 
and who therefore consider the untitled, the “ commoners,” in 
short, as of a caste hopelessly inferior to the wearers of coronets. 
She had to reconcile herself to the inevitable, and she did her 
best to be a guardian angel to Clare of Leominster. To Arthur 
Talbot she was very gracious indeed. 

“You must come home with us, Mr. Talbot ; we are going 
home now,” said the dignified spinster ; “ unless any engage- 
ment prevents ” 

“ I have no engagement. Indeed, I have but few occu- 
pations here in London,” answered Arthur, frankly and 
pleasantly. “ But,” he added, as a shade came over his face, 
“ I am afraid of inflicting too much of my company on Lady 
Leorninster,” i ^ 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


63 

And indeed the young lady thus alluded to had been lean- 
ing back in her barouche, as cold, inert, and uninterested as a 
beautiful statue. She turned slowly towards him now, and a 
smile brightened her face for a moment, as she said gently ; 
“ It would not be an infliction, Mr. Talbot. I — we — should be 
very glad if you would go home with us.” 

Arthur stepped at once into the carriage, and the order was 
given by the younger of the two ladies for “ Home ; ” but how 
coldly and carelessly she said it ! How soon had the light 
faded out of the sweet blue eyes, and how rapidly had the lovely 
frozen image, for a moment thawed into warm, soft humanity, 
congealed into ice again ! Before the barouche was well out of 
Regent Street, Arthur began to repent of having accepted Lady 
Barbara’s invitation. His patience, however, was not put to a 
very severe test, for Mayfair distances are not as Belgravian 
ones, and Leominster House, with its great gates and its huge 
halls, and that sense of vastness which some palaces and most 
fortresses contrive to impress upon the stranger who has once 
been admitted, suggested a new train of thought. A grand, 
gloomy home — such were his meditations — for that most 
beautiful, most tender young thing, whom a strange chance of 
Fate had forced into a high position of exalted friendlessness. 
Arthur had known the mansion in his friend’s short reign ; and 
he knew also that Wilfred had never liked his town house. 

“ It makes me shudder ; I feel always as if I were entering 
a mausoleum,” the sickly young lord had said, once and again, 
to his best friend. There certainly was something oppressive 
about its very spaciousness, something portentous in the re- 
spectful grimness of the well-trained domestics. It was all very 
fine, decorous, and sad, as if a state funeral were going on — all, 
so Arthur thought, uncongenial to the girlish mistress of so 
much dusky splendor. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ANOTHER VISITOR. 

Lady Barbara was really pleased to see her nephew’s dear- 
est friend beneath the roof that she had learned to think her 
own. Technically, of course, and in a legal point of view, it 


64 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FATE. 


was the widow’s, at least for life ; and would then be at the 
disposal of the objectionable Dolly Montgomery, newly in- 
ducted into the Marquisate of the elder branch, and keeping 
up his new honors as best he might on the strictly entailed re- 
venue of the inalienable Lincolnshire estates. But the Lady 
Barbara had been born at Leominster House, had reigned there 
as Lady Paramount during the latter years of her invalid 
father, and might be excused for regarding herself, the typical- 
Montgomery, as mistress of the big, melancholy mansion that, 
had been once so full of life and light, and color and noise and 
revelry. She made Arthur welcome, then, with an urbanity 
that she rarely displayed, talking, pleasantly enough, of Egypt, 
that she had never seen, and London, of which she really did 
not know very much ; regarding the society of that capital as 
she had ever done, as from the topmost pinnacle of an iceberg, 
and listening affably to whatever Talbot had to say. 

The other lady’s behavior was perplexing to Arthur, and 
would have been so to Lady Barbara, had that dignified damsel 
been able to study her companion’s present demeanor by the 
light of previous experience. For a while she would be listless, 
haughty, cold ; and then, by a swift transition, the same sweet 
girl that he could remember her, when the flush came so 
quickly to her beautiful face, and her eye would brighten or 
grow sad at a word. He recollected well how kind she had 
been to the poor tawny natives of the country that was her 
temporary home, and how he had seen her, with large-eyed 
Egyptian children clustering timidly about her knee, and how 
strangely the little heathen bantlings had seemed to love the 
noble lady from Frangistan. His own feelings, where she was 
concerned, was a thing apart. But he had begun, before Egypt 
was left behind, to feel that Clare was very dear to him, and he 
had hoped that she might one day be his wife. As for the 
pomp and state that surrounded her, he hated it, as one might 
dislike to see a lovely rose begirt by heavy settings of gold and 
jewels. But now, what a change had come over her ! 

“ Her sister — Miss Cora Carew — is the cause of all,” said 
Lady Barbara, in a lowered voice, when the other lady was 
seated at a distant side-table, writing a letter, which she had 
craved leave to write, according to the dictates of ordinary po- 
liteness. When a hostess cares much for a guest, she does not 
ask his leave to indite an epistle to somebody else ; but Arthur 
was almost reconciled to the perplexing demeanor of her whom 
he loved, when there seemed to be a valid reason for the 
change. He, like others, had been struck by the astonishing 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR 

likeness between the twin sisters, who now, for the first time in 
their young lives, had been sundered. To him there had ap- 
peared, always, a marked difference in character. Clare had 
been her own noble self, and Cora Carew a charming, sweet 
natured girl. How very great was the puzzle now ! 

“You were saying. Lady Barbara.?” for the aristocratic 
spinster had sunk into a reverie, during which she knit her 
black brows closely, and looked like a maiden edition of Lady 
Macbeth, her shrewd narrow mind manifestly absorbed in some 
train of deep thought as to the honor or dishonor to accrue to 
the ancient House of Montgomery. 

She responded to Talbot’s words as the war-horse to the 
trumpet-call. “ Yes ; I was speaking of Miss Carew — whom 
you may remember, I daresay.” 

“ I knew Miss Carew very well ; she was always with her 
sister. Lady Leominster. I only wondered not to see her here 
to-day,” replied Arthur. 

“You will never see her here,” was the austere answer of 
Lady Barbara — “ never, unless she repents of her sinful scheme ; 
or, unless, as I sometimes fear, her sister’s weak indulgence — ” 

“ But, Lady Barbara,” broke in Arthur Talbot hotly, “ you 
forget — a thousand pardons for interrupting you — that I am in 
total ignorance as to whatever may have occurred, or to what 
you allude. Can it be possible that Miss Cora Carew has — ” 

“ Sir Pagan Carew ! ” announced the soft-treading, sonor- 
ous voiced person in solemn black, whose duty it was to usher 
in visitors ; and the strong limbed, swarthy young baronet 
made his awkward entry. 

“ Forgotten me. I’m afraid. Lady Mar — no. Lady Barbara, 
that’s it,” he said, in his rough flurried way, as he touched Lady 
Barbara’s cold fingers.— “ Clare, dear, so glad — of course. 
What an age it seems ! ” And the baronet bestowed a more 
fervent hand-shake on his sister, and would have kissed her, 
for there was genuine brotherly kindness in his tone and in his 
eye ; but he was too shy to do it before company. “ What an 
age it seems ! ” repeated Sir Pagan, seeming to hug the ex- 
pression, for lack of another to succeed it ; and then, catching 
sight of Talbot whom he knew well, he made a dash at his 
hand too, muttering : “ Didn’t know you had got back from 
Egypt — awfully pleased to see you, old man ! ” And Sir Pagan 
really did seem glad to see Arthur, whom he liked, and with 
whom he felt at home, for he was more comfortable in the so- 
ciety of men than of women. 


66 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


“ So good of you to come to me, Pagan,” said his sister, 
seating herself near the dark young guest. ^ 

“ Umph ! ” muttered the baronet, looking askance at Lady 
Barbara, who had done her very best to smile . during the in- 
terview, and who now said, blandly enough “ Indeed, Sir 
Pagan, you are very welcome here, and I have — we have — al- 
ways wished to see you. I trust we shall persuade you to 
regard this as a second home, and to spare us some of your 
idle hours on your sister’s account. — By the bye, I hope you 
bring good news of Miss Carew.” 

The baronet flushed pink to his very ears. “ I don’t quite 
understand ; she is pretty well,” he made answer. 

Sir Pagan Carew was excessively embarrassed. He was 
one of those well born gentlemen of whom Thackeray said, long 
ago, that they never enter a lady’s drawing-room. The num- 
ber of these young men augments very much in modern days, 
when London tends more and more to become no single town, 
but a vast agglomeration of many Londons, an immense cath- 
erine-wheel revolving with more or less of sparkle and glitter. 
There was much of good soil lying fallow, if the metaphor may 
be pardoned, in that rugged, honest nature. He was very true, 
too, to the ties of kindred ; and it was on his sister’s ac- 
count that he had ventured now to so formidable a place as 
Leominster House, known to be the den of so terrific a social 
dragon as Lady Barbara Montgomery. 

“My sister is pretty well;' dull for her, though, in Bruton 
Street, shut up there,” said Sir Pagan ; and he really spoke as 
if he had been the humane but stolid keeper of a private lu- 
natic asylum, of which that sister of his had the misfortune to 
be an inmate. 

“ My darling — if I had her with me here ! ” was the low re- 
joinder of the mistress of Castel Vawr ; and Sir Pagan, who 
thought such an arrangement an eminently desirable one, 
glanced furtively at Lady Barbara, to see whether that dragon 
of old-fashioned aristocracy sanctioned the suggestion. 

But Lady Barbara looked exceedingly grim. “There is 
something to be retracted, and — excuse me, Sir Pagan, some- 
thing to be repented, before Miss Carew can be a welcome 
guest here.” 

“ Oh, upon my word. Lady Barbara,” blurted out the bar- 
onet, for the whole affair was a pain and a bewilderment to 
him. 

“ Of course, if you side with her ” — Lady Barbara began, 
in her slow dignified way. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FA IE. 


67 

“ But I don’t, begging your ladyship’s pardon,” interrupted 
the wretched Sir Pagan ; “ I don’t side with anybody ; and I 
wish with all my heart ” — But here the baronet noticed that 
Arthur Talbot — who probably felt uncomfortable in his present 
position as an auditor — had risen, hat in hand, and was about 
to take his leave. The dread of being left unprotected to the 
tender mercies of the awful Lady Barbara, overpowered Sir 
Pagan. Had he been a modern Andromeda, he could not have 
shown more panic fear of the dragon. “ I must be going too,” 
he exclaimed nervously, as he scrambled from his chair.— 
“Good-bye, Clare.” 

“ I have seen nothing of you, brother,” returned the sister, 
with soft reproach, as she took his proffered hand. 

“ I’ll come again ; yes, very soon — see you often, now you 
are in town,” ejaculated the baronet, prodigal of promises, now 
that he saw a chance of escape from his present penance. — 
Good-bye, Lady Barbara — so glad ! ” And it was with a sense 
of rare relief that Sir Pagan passed out at the gates. “ I should 
have a fit of some kind soon, if I lived in that — jail,” said the 
baronet bluntly to Talbot, as the two walked on side by side. 

“ These very great and grand houses, without company to 
enliven them, are melancholy abodes, I daresay,” answered 
Arthur, smiling at the baronet’s vehemence. 

“Melancholy! My poor old barrack at Carew is ajovial 
place in comparison ; and as for your house — Oakdene — it’s a 
a perfect bower of bliss and snugness ; whereas at Leominster, 
what d’ye call it, I had an ugly sensation of being buried before 
my time,” said Sir Pagan, who had hunted much in the New 
Forest, and had thus come to know Talbot, as a hospitable es- 
quire of small means and good manners, fairly well. — “ Do you 
know, Talbot, I used to envy my sister her stroke of good luck 
— to hook a Marquis was luck. But I pity her now, almost as 
I do the other poor girl that lives with me in that bachelor den 
of mine.” 

Arthur Talbot was full of curiosity ; but you cannot much 
more easily ask questions as to a man’s sisters than you can 
propound them as to a man’s wife. 

They were in Piccadilly by this time, amidst the roar of 
voices and the roll of wheels, and all the myriad sounds that 
go to make up the hum of London. 

“ I am only at a West End hotel, the Cavendish, for a few 
days,” Arthur said, in answer to an inquiry on his companion’s 
part. “ You, I think, are in Bruton Street still, Carew. I’ll 
look you up, there.” 


68 


OME FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


“ Come to-morrow — to dinner, I mean — if you’re not en- 
gaged. — Awfully glad you’re not. Meet some men. It’s not 
often I ask any one ; at home, I mean ; but one must keep up 
one’s old friends. — This your way — this is mine. Don’t forget, 
old man — Bruton Street, half-past eight.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HALF AN HOUR TOO SOON. 

An invitation to dinner may mean much or little. There 
are some such biddings which are of the nature of those gold 
medals of honor conferred at Exhibitions, whereof advertising 
firms make capital so excusably ; whereas others are the mere 
small coin or unconsidered counters of every-day social exis- 
tence. To be chronicled in the Morning Post as a diner at 
Macbeth House is a valuable certificate for a young man who 
has his way to make in society or the professions. To be reg- 
istered among the feasters at Mandeville House confers a 
certain celebrity, less solid, but more brilliant. To be the 
guest of such an entertainer as Sir Pagan Carew would, to the 
wary and veteran diner-out of London, have suggested nothing 
but the certainty of bad cookery and dubious vintages, and the 
still worse probability of making those queer -acquaintances 
whom it is so proverbially difficult to cold-shoulder or to shake 
off. Yet Arthur Talbot went cheerfully enough to keep his 
appointment in Bruton Street. He knew the baronet, and 
liked him- well, although there was a wide gulf, as to culture 
and tone of thought, between the two men. And then Sir 
Pagan was Clare’s brother : albeit Clare herself was probably 
quite as much of an enigma to her kith and kin as she was be- 
coming to himself. Could it be that prosperity and pomp, and 
splendor and power, were combining to spoil that fine nature, 
and that the delicate sweet young girl, who had grown up like 
a wild blossom amidst the dark Devon moors, was now becom- 
ing cold and egotistical in the proud solitude of her high posi- 
tion ! He feared so ; and yet 

Bruton Street at last ; not that the way had seemed long to 
Arthur, wrapped in meditation as he was ; and he laid his hand 
upon the rusty knocker and awoke the echoes within. A man, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


69 

in shirt-sleeves and very hot, with a white cravat and black 
garments, but with “ greengrocer ” plainly written on his ingenu- 
ous countenance, came bustling to the door, and admitted the 
guest, with an air of manifest disappointment that he was not 
some emissary from florist or pastrycook. Another man. Sir 
Pagan’s nondescript servitor in livery, more groom than foot- 
man, then appeared, hastily shaking himself into his bright- 
buttoned coat. The narrow hall was dimly lighted, and littered 
with trays and wine-baskets ; and. from the dining-room itself 
there came a portentous hum and clatter of preparation. Arthur 
was hurriedly ushered up the darkling staircase, and into the 
faded drawing-room, where the gas was blazing brightly enough. 
The room had only one occupant, a slender girl, dressed in 
black, who was arranging some fresh-cut flowers in a great 
porcelain vase that stood in the centre of an old-fashioned loo- 
table. She started, and turned round like a frightened fawn at 
the sound of the opening door and the muttered announcement 
of the visitor’s name. There was no mistaking the beautiful 
young face, crowned by golden hair. 

“ Mr. Talbot,” said the girl, timidly, and then held out her 
hand in sign of greeting. She had let the tiny basket which 
she held drop upon the floor, and one or two of the blossoms 
and a tuft of moss were strewed over the carpet. 

Arthur stooped to pick them up. “ I startled you, I fear,” 
he said, smiling. “ I am here by your brother’s invitation ; 
and from the terms of it, I did not expect >” 

“To see me,” answered she to whom he spoke, as he 
hesitated. “ I suppose not ; and I, too, was quite taken by 
surprise, though you are an old friend, Mr. Talbot. This is 
one of Pagan’s bachelor parties ; and I was trying to be useful, 
and was afraid that, like Cinderella at the ball, I had over- 
stayed my time, and that it was more than half-past eight, and 
my brother’s guests arriving.” 

“ Mine was a verbal invitation — I thought it was for eight 
o’clock,” said Talbot, half amused and half annoyed at his own 
inadvertence, as he glanced at the gilt clock on the chimney- 
piece, of chipped but massive marble. “ I begin to see what a 
blunder I have made, and that I have come half an hour too 
soon. I only hope that you will forgive my rustic awkwardness, 
and not let me banish you from the drawing-room. It would 
be fitter if I, as the trespasser, were to take flight. Perhaps 
you will let me help you with the flowers, or, at any rate hold 
the basket. I think I might be capable of that.” 

His host’s sister accepted bis assistance readily enough, as 


ONE FALSE, /WIN FAIR. 


70 

with patient care, she put the final touches to the arrangement 
of the flowers in the vase ; but her face was averted, and her 
slender white fingers trembled very much, so that the process 
was a slow one. Arthur himself felt embarrassed at a meeting 
so wholly unexpected. How well, in Egypt, had he known the 
two sisters. Then, they had appeared all but inseparable ; now 
something, he could not conjecture what, had occurred to oc- 
casion an estrangement between them. Talbot was far from 
grasping the key of the enigma. Lady Barbara’s oracular ut- 
terances had implied that the blame for this sudden separation 
lay at the door of the sister now before him ; but then, of what 
imaginable fault could she have been guilty.? and w^as it possi- 
ble that some feminine quarrel, some silly ebullition of temper, 
had been misconstrued and magnified, perhaps by the injudi- 
cious partisanship of the dignified aunt of the late Marquis, and 
had thus brought about a severance between those who had 
seemed indissolubly united ? 

“T was at Leominster House yesterday,” said Arthur, vho 
felt it incumbent on him to change the subject. “ I should not 
have called — not yet, at least ; but Lady Barbara, who was 
most gracious, insisted on my doing so ; and the Marchio- 
ness ” 

As if a wapsp had stung her, the girl started from him, and 
all the color faded from her face, while her eyes dilated, and 
she gazed at him with a sort of horror that was to him per- 
plexing and painful withal. “ You have been there — been to 
her .? ” she asked, as if incredulous. 

“ There must be some mistake,” said Talbot, gently. “ I 
merely mentioned my visit, at Lady Barbara Montgomery’s ex- 
press wish, at Leominster House, and that the Marchioness, 
your sister ” 

“ The Marchioness ! — my sister ! ” interrupted the girl, 
with a long quivering cry of anger. — “ Is it possible — can it be, 
that you have not heard ” 

“ Heard what ? ” asked Talbot, with pitying softness in his 
tone, for he could mark her grief and agitation, while he could 
not, had his very life depended on it, divine its cause. 

“ I thought,” answered the girl piteously, “ that Pagan — 
that my brother would have told you— -you and he are friends 
— so were we two, not long ago, in that country that now seems 
so far away. But he has, it seems, left it to me to tell you, if 
I can, the dreadful truth. — Mr. Talbot,” she added, looking 
him full in the face^ though her blue eyes swam with tears^ and 


O^E EALSE, EOTH FATE, 

her voice was tremulous and broken, “ who am I ? For whom 
do you take me ? ” 

Never had Arthur been asked so bewildering a question. 

Really Miss Carew,” he began ; when his hesitating speech 
was interrupted by a passionate outburst of sobs, and cover- 
ing her face with her hands, his entertainers’s sister rushed 
from the room, the quicker, perhaps, because at that moment 
there was the unmistakable sound of feet and voices on the 
staircase ; and soon the door of the drawing-room was flung 
open, and “ Sir Thomas Jenks,” “Captain Spurrier,” “Mr. 
Beamish,” were announced in rapid succession by the foot- 
man. 

Three gentlemen came in. The first was old Sir Thomas 
Jenks— a very aged baronet, not too well off. Well-meaning, 
dull Sir Thomas had a wife and daughters at home, and was by 
far too domestic a character to be a frequent diner-out, en gar- 
con. But he had a high traditional regard for the decayed 
House of Carew, and would have felt a pang had he re- 
fused the invitation of his brother baronet. 

Of a very different mould was gallant Captain Spurrier, once, 
in India and on the Afghan frontier, reputed a dashing officer 
of light cavalry, and who had only needed the opportunity of a 
protracted European war to win renown with his sword. As it 
was, he was out of the army long ago, and lived and won 
laurels such as they were, by risking his neck fearlessly on any 
horse a patron chose to offer, on any steeplechase course in 
all Europe. His new career was far more dangerous than his 
old one, since life and limb were perpetually in peril, and 
fraught with the temptations that beset the gentleman rider 
even more than the humbly-born jockey. But, “ as honest as 
Spurrier ” was a proverb on the racecourse, and a good deal of 
his desperately won earnings found its way to a quiet villa on 
the seacoast near Whitby, where an old mother and two spin- 
ster sisters had much cause to pray for his life. 

Of another mould, too, though a meaner one, was glib Mr. 
Beamish, the rattling Irish barrister, whose two great ambi- 
tions were to win an Engiish wife noble and well endowed, and 
a British borough, by the strength of his fluent tongue and 
facile gesticulation ; and who really seemed, in an epoch like 
our own, when blatant charlatans find only too many ears open 
to their audacious assertions, likely to succeed in both of these 
modest aspirations. Envious Irishmen, lower down the ladder 
of social life, averred that “ Patsy Beamish’s” father had been 
a waiter in a Cork hotel, and that “ Patsy ” himself had been 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


12 

errand-boy, boot’s deputy, and winner of other gossoons’ half- 
pence at pitch and toss on the quays, long before his papa’s 
savings sent him up to become a student of Trinity College 
and a bewigged ornament of the Irish bar. A clever fellow, 
unquestionably, and a rising man, as some newspapers pro- 
tested, was Mr. Beamish from Ireland. 

Then came bursting in Sir Pagan, the host, hot and flus- 
tered, after his scamper home in a hansom, and his hurried 
toilet, apologizing to his guest, individually, as he wrung their 
hands in turn, for his own non-appearance to receive them. 
“ So sorry. Sir Thomas — business engagement — hope I didn’t 
keep you long.” — “ Beg jDardon, Mr. Beamish ; couldn’t get 

away.” — Talbot, you’ll forgive my being so rude as ” 

“ Sorry, Spurrier ; but I was kept, ten miles from London, 
about a horse that Cockermouth — that fellow in the Lancers 
— wants to sell. He’s a grand horse to look at.” These last 
sentences were uttered in a low and semi-confidential tone. 

“ Ah, a horse ; did you buy him ? ” asked the Captain, 
puckering up his clear dark eyes, as was his wont when he 
scanned an ugly place in the fence towards which he was, pro- 
fessionally, riding hard in silken jacket. Never had he himself 
pocketed a wrongful sixpence ; but he knew how slippery are 
the paths on which those who deal in horses, whether to buy, 
sell, or bet, must travel, and how hard it is to be concerned 
about those noble, all-enduring animals without degenerating 
into knave or dupe. 

“ No, I didn’t,” retorted the baronet expressively, as if he 
had been saved from a great danger ; and then he turned to 
welcome “ Mr. Fulford,” “ Colonel Prideaux,” and one or two 
more honest Devon gentlemen, who had stretched a point to 
avail themselves of the invitation of a Carew of Carew. Then 
in came the two or three other guests, mere London diners- out, 
clubmen of no especial note ; and then dinner was announced, 
and there was a shambling progress downstairs, made especially 
awkward by old Sir Thomas Jenks, who, with his antiquated 
politeness, turned to apologize to his followers for preceding 
them down the narrow staircase, and caused more than one 
clumsy stoppage before the banqueting hall was reached. 

It was a bad dinner. It could scarcely be otherwise, given 
as it was in Bruton Street, by a bachelor baronet on the verge 
of bankruptcy, and whose straitened circumstances did not per- 
mit him to secure the services of that rara avis of domesticity, 
a good cook. Some of the battered old Carew plate had as 
yet escaped the melting pot of the silversmith ; and with the 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


73 


aid of fresh flowers and hothouse fruit, it made as brave a 
show as it could ; but the v/aiting was bad, the made dishes 
were as indigestible compounds as the perversity of a pastry- 
cook could well contrive ; and while some of the wine was 
good, much of it was execrable. Nor was the conversation 
such as might atone for the shortcomings of viands and vin- 
tages. Mr. Beamish, with his oily Cork brogue and easy flow 
of words, took the lion’s share in it ; while the only other talker 
was Colonel Prideaux, who commanded a militia battalion 
somewhere in the western counties, and was more ostentatiously 
“ pipeclay ” in his discourse than the smartest martinet in the 
regular army. Captain Spurrier, finding himself in uncongenial 
company, said very little. Sir Thomas, after a vain attempt 
to interest his neighbors at table in his usual topics, petty-ses- 
sions, poachers, and turnpike trusts, became as mute as a fish ; 
and Sir Pagan, as a silent host, found himself unable to dispel 
the general dulness. He had never learned the truth, that 
dinner-giving is ^ branch of the fine arts, and that to assort the 
company is to the full as necessary to enjoyment as it is to 
provide for the commissariat. He was himself a shy, moody 
man, painfully conscious of his narrow education and scanty 
reading, and ill at ease when not among those of his own set. 
The giving of this particular dinner he looked upon as an act 
of duty, if not, of actual penance, and was on thorns until the 
whole affair should be over, and he himself free to resume the 
interrupted thread of his habitual life. 

One member of the party. Sir Pagan felt, had disappointed 
the hopes which his host had secretly entertained concerning 
his demeanor at the festive board. He had always had a high 
opinion of Arthur Talbot, not merely as an honorable gentle- 
man, but as, what the sporting baronet admired as humbly as 
French warriors, when Louis XIV. was king, admired French 
wits “ a clever fellow.” He had looked on him as a counter- 

poise to Beamish the Corkagian barrister, whose too voluble 
discourse was unrelieved save by the didactic prosiness of the 
militia colonel ; whereas Talbot, fresh from Egypt too, and 
with a memory presumably stored with travellers’ tales, did not 
so much as enliven the dreariness by a single allusion to dra- 
gomans and dahabeeahs, and contributed nothing more to the 
debate than did heavy Squire Fulford, whose thoughts were of 
oilcake and drain-tiles and shorthorns. The truth was, that 
Arthur’s thoughts were far away from the immediate purpose of 
the social gathering. He was unconscious of the ^ exceeding 
badness of the ill-cooked entrees ; and as for the wine, it mat- 


74 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


tered little' to him whether the sherry came from Hamburg or 
Cadiz, the champagne from Epernay or Cette. Even the 
dozen or so of sound claret that Sir Pagan had brought up re- 
luctantly from his father’s deplenished cellar, did not, so far 
as his modest share of it went, make itself anymore noticed by 
its velvet smoothness than did the acrid heat of the Elbe coun- 
terfeit of golden Amontillado. He cared nothing for the 
blatant talk and circuit jokes of the rising barrister, -and was 
not even aware how very stupid and wearisome the party was. 

The truth was that Arthur Talbot now felt that a riddle 
which it might have puzzled CEdipus to solve, had suddenly 
been set before him. What was the real cause of the quarrel 
or the estrangement between those twin sisters, Clare and Cora, 
the one so highly placed in the world’s hierarchy, the other as 
richly endowed, in spite of her poverty, with the gifts of nature’s 
giving ? He had seen enough of both — or thought he had — to 
feel convinced that their sisterly love for one another was no 
mere thing of habit, and that it must have taken some deep- 
lying motive, some violent wrench, to bring about the scandal 
of the separation. He had seen but yesterday the one sister 
in the solemn stateliness of her late husband’s home. That 
evening he had spoken with the other beneath her brother’s 
roof. Each had received him with embarrassed coldness. 
Each had seemed to be smarting under some sense of unde- 
served wrong. What was it that had befallen both ? The 
utterances which he had heard had been so enigmatical that 
they obscured rather than enlightened his intelligence. It is 
not surprising that he was reckoned as among the dummies of 
the party. 

The dinner was over at last ; and coffee and cigars and 
curacoa and other liqueurs, from which Sir Thomas Jenks, 
heedful of the warnings of his doctor, recoiled as from a rattle- 
snake, being slowly disposed of ; and this not being one of 
those repasts that are followed by card-playing as surely as the 
thunder-roll succeeds to the lurid glare of the lightning, it came 
to be time to say “ good-night.” Highly respectable Sir Thomas 
was the first to take a ceremonious leave of the wearied host, 
and his example was eagerly imitated by the other banqueters. 
Arthur Talbot, who had been the first to come, was in effect 
the last to go ; and he lingered, half unconscious of his motive, 
in the vague hope that Sir Pagan might say something to eluci- 
date the mystery that brooded over the present relations of the 
two sisters. But nothing was farther from Sir Pagan’s 
thoughts. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


75 


“ Awfully kind of you to come, Talbot, at such short notice,” 
said the baronet, looking ruefully around him, and surveying, 
with a sort of ingenuous disgust, the ruins of the feast, in the 
shape of cigar-ends, glasses huddled together, and dessert 
dishes in confusion. “ And a dreadful bore, I should think, 
you found it, old man. 1 know I did ! Thought it would 
never be over. The fact is, dear boy, I’m not the man to do 
this sort of thing, any more than I am to be Lord Chamberlin 
or Astronomer-royal. At the club, it’s different. — Light another 
cigar ? — No ! — Then good-night.” 

And so they parted ; Arthur walking home to his hotel, 
chewing the cud of his own involved thoughts. And at last 
sleep came to him, and he dreamed that he was in Egypt again, 
the old Egypt, not the new, one of a trembling crowd gathered 
arolind the awful beauty of the colossal Sphinx, and in the 
stern, solemn face, as it turned towards him with inscrutable 
eyes, he recognized the features of Madame de Lalouve. 


CHAPTER XV. 

SEEKING LEGAL AID. 

“If you will do it, my dear, of course you will,” said Sir 
Pagan to his sister, two days after the dinner in Bruton Street. 
He spoke impatiently, and perhaps roughly ; but his heart was 
not a hard one ; and his mood changed at once as he heard a 
low stifled sob in response to his petulant retort. 

“ I will do it. It is my duty and my right ; and at any cost, 
I mean to carry it out,” was the slowly spoken answer of the 
golden-haired girl, whose face was half averted from him. 
“ Right is right, brother, even ho igh you, too, turn against 
me.” 

“ I’d have given a thousand pounds ” — blurted out Sir Pagan, 
and then stuck fast in his unfinished speech, and blushed darkly 
red as he realized two facts — one the patent truth, that he had 
not a thousand pounds at his command ; the other, that his 
hasty words might sound unkind. “ I, for one, won’t turn 
against you ; hang me, if I do ! ” said the baronet sturdily. 

“ And yet. Pagan, you never would really listen to me. 


76 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FALR. 


never would be, as I had hoped you would, iny champion and 
my friend, helping me — as you should — in the struggle, and 

“ Now, my dear, don’t ! ” was Sir Pagan’s almost piteous 
protest. “Between you and — her” — he made a great effort 
here to suppress the word Clare, that was trembling at his gates 
of speech — “ I’m not fit to be umpire. And yet, my girl, I 
mean to be kind, as a brother should. I’ll speak to, he added 
desperately, “ anybody. If Lady Barbara ” 

“ Lady Barbara will never acknowledge my right, until i\v: 
strong hand of the law enforces it,” exclaimed the girl, with a 
sudden flush in her pale cheek. “You mean well, brother; 
but I see that I must steer my own bark through these troubled 
waters.” 

Sir Pagan was silent. 

“ I should go, then, in the first case to Mr. Pontifex, as I 
said,” she continued. 

“ Why not, if you must go to a lawyer at all, go to my man, 
as I advised.?” asked Sir Pagan, with some sense of injury. 

“ Wickett isn’t dear — for a lawyer, I mean — and gives a good deal 
for his six-and-eight, or his thirteen-and-four, in the bill of costs ; 
whereas Pounce and Pontifex are people I should no more go 
to, if in trouble, than I should ask old Sir Joseph Doublefee, 
the Queen’s physician, to feel my pulse. And Wickett is so 
sharp ! If you have a chance with a jury — I mean in horse 
cases and that — he’ll take you up, and retain Beamish or some 
such shrewd dog, and get you a verdict, likely as not. But it 
you haven’t a leg to stand upon ” 

“ I’m afraid. Pagan dear, I must manage my own matters in 
my own way,” was the mild, resolute reply ; and Sir Pagan, 
pulled out his watch. 

“ I’ll tell James to have the brougham ready when you like 
to go out, C — sister,” blundered out the baronet, who had with 
difficulty enforced on himself the rule to call his nearly related 
visitor by no name, thereby preserving his own attitude of 
judicial impartiality, and also in the hope of avoiding a scene. 

It was not very likely that he would return until it should 
be time to dress for dinner — should it be worth his while lo 
dress, for his bachelor meal — at his club or elsewhere. Few 
men get less of good or comfort out of the houses for which 
they pay, grudgingly, ground-rent, rates, and taxes, and the bills 
of slaters and plumbers, than did Sir Pagan. But he had a 
dim consciousness that a baronet’s house like the tenement of 
the proverbial Englishman, is his castle, and stands him in as 
good stead as does the shell of the crab to its crustaceous 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


11 

owner. Had he given it up, and gone to dwell in chambers, or 
St. James’s Street lodgings, his credit would have gone down 
to County Court pitch, and the Society journals, so-called, would 
have earned a pennyworth by scoffing at the fallen glories of the 
broken-down House of Carew. 

As it was. Sir Pagan departed ; ‘and an hour later or less, 
Sir Pagan’s shabby brougham, with the Red Hand of Ulster 
blushing on its ill-painted panels, conveyed Sir Pagan’s sister 
to the classic purlieus of Lincoln’s Inn. She had the address 
of Messrs. Pounce and Pontifex by heart ; and entering the 
stony court and passing under the low-browed doorway, which 
frowned down upon her as it had frowned on many another pil- 
grim — on none, surely, so lovely as she was — timidly mounted 
the black oaken stairs, and rang the bell appertaining to the 
legal lair of those illustrious magi of British, or at least English 
domestic law, of settlements, entails, wills, and remainders, 
Messrs Pounce and Pontifex. A very civil, decent sort of 
clerk, bald as a billiard ball, came to respond to her summons. 

“ Is Mr. Pontifex within, or Mr. Pounce } ” faltered out the 
applicant for admission. 

The clerk was an experienced clerk^ and knew a lady when 
he saw one ; but had Sir Pagan’s sister been the poorest and 
most bewildered old woman who ever travelled by parliamentaiy 
train of London to prove her husband's will, good natured Mr. 
Jupper would have been patient and forbearing with her. “ Mr. 
Pounce is not in chambers now, madam,” said the clerk, as 
indeed he might have said with perfect truth at most hours of 
every working-day, for the visits of old Mr. Pounce to Lincoln’s 
Inn were as rare as those of angels. “ Mr. Pontifex, I am 
afraid, is engaged ; but What name might I mention ? ” 

“ Lady Leominster. Mr. Pontifex knows me. I am stay- 
ing with my brother. Sir Pagan Carew, in Bruton Street ; and 
I have come here this morning to consult Mr. Pontifex on busi- 
ness.” This was said in the dull mechanical tone of one who 
repeats a lesson learned by heart, but of which the learner is 
wear}^ 

Worthy Jupper, the confidential clerk, screwed up his lips 
and arched his eyebrows, and then coughed. Clerks of the 
confidential variety are seldom slow in getting to learn the last 
intelligence as to the more important of their employers’ 
hereditary clients, and Mr. Jupper had heard something, and 
guessed more, as to the singular estrangement between the well 
endowed widow of the deceased Marquis and her penniless 
sister. The mention of Bruton Street and Sir Pagan’s name 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


78 

made it plain to him which of the two it was who craved an au- 
dience with his principal. 

“ If — your ladyship — would please to come in,” said Mr. 
Jupper desperately, after a moment’s hesitation, and perhaps 
agreeing with the lawyer in the Bride of Lamfnermoor, that 
nothing was lost by conceding a title of courtesy, “ 1 will let 
Mr. Pontifex, know. — This is the way,” he added pioneering 
the visitor through the clerks’ office, where pens scratched 
steadily over paper, and into a neat dull antechamber ; and 
then after a minute’s delay, into the presence of Mr. Pontifex, 
who had risen from his seat at the writing-table and who came 
forward with an urbane bow to receive the new-comer. 

The girl meekly took the arm-chair offered her, and threw 
one glance around the room, with its shelves crammed with 
law-books, and other shelves that supported japanned deed- 
boxes, gold-lettered with the names of very distinguished clients 
indeed. The apartment itself was not ill furnished, with its 
thick old Turkey carpet and thick red curtains ; but it had a 
gloomy look ; and the light poured in in but a subdued fashion, 
even on that summer’s day, through the begrimed windows. 
Then she turned her blue eyes full on the lawyer’s face as he 
sat opposite, watching her, with something of pity in his 
gaze. 

“ You know me, Mr. Pontifex, and my history,” she said, 
in a voice that had strangely lost its music, and that sounded 
almost harshly in the speaker’s ear ; “ who better, since you 
were at Caste 1 Vawr when ” 

“ When the unfortunate misunderstanding arose,” suggested 
the attorney smoothly, as he rubbed his hands together. 

“ Say, rather, when the cruel wrong was don^ ! ” flashed 
out the visitor with a sudden and passionate energy that made 
the lawyer wince. “I have come here to-day to ask if you 
will help me. Will you ? ” 

“ Most willingly, if it be in my power — consistently, of 
course, with my engagements and my duty,” was the guarded 
answer of Mr. Pontifex. He was sorry to have to be guarded 
in his reply to such a one. A good man was the eminent 
family solicitor, and a good father. His daughters, at their 
luxurious Maida Hill villa, would have held as high treason the 
notion that any possible papa could be as good and kind and 
dear as was their papa. And he had a very fatherly, sorrowful 
feeling towards this poor young thing, so beautiful and so misled. 
But there was something in her bearing that chilled him. What 
must be — so he thought, in sorrow, not in anger — the heart of 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


V9 

one who could persist so steadfastly, so fiercely, it might be 
said, in a detestable course of self-convicted imposture ? 

“ I am not aware, sir, of the nature of your engagements, or 
of what your duty may consist,’’ was the hasty reply. “ Are you 
in the pay of my enemy t ” And as she spoke, she half rose 
from the great arm-chair, and her eyes glittered with angry ex- 
citement. 

Mr. Pontifex was struck speechless. Never, in the whole 
course of his professional career, had he been asked such a 
question. It took a woman to ask it. It took, also, a woman 
at bay. Men, at least educated men, are more circumspect. 
But when a lady is driven out of her narrow conventional vocab- 
ulary of lady-like prettinesses and platitudes, she is apt to say 
things that astonish conventional listeners. The experienced 
family solicitor paused for a while. 

“ Of what enemy, my dear young lady, do you speak .? ” he 
said gently, when he had had time to reflect. 

“ Of her who dwells in my dead husband’s house, who 
usurps his honors and his wealth, and thanks to whom I am an 
outcast, suspected by all,” v;as the wrathful answer; and this 
time the girl sprang to her feet, lithe, flushed, almost terrible 
in her anger. 

Nothing could have done her greater harm, in the judg- 
ment of so experienced a man of the world as cool, kindly Mr. 
Pontifex, who had had to do, professionally, with bad natures 
as well as good ones — who had been intrusted with the mis- 
sion of coaxing rash Lady Mauds, or obstinate Honorable 
Floras, into giving up a compromising correspondence with 
scampish suitors, and who had talked more than one dogged 
lady’s-maid into resignation of “ that di’mond necklace, which 
I know no more of it than the babe in the nursery,” sooner 
than prosaic police should be sent for, and horrid commitments 
be made out for the county jail. He was very much vexed 
now. 

“ We had better be calm,” he said, more cheerfully than he 
felt ; “ and indeed, in law matters — and you are in a lawyer’s 
chambers, recollect — if we were not calm, we are sure to get 
into the wrong box. We, Pounce and Pontifex, have acted for 
the Marquis of Leominster — I speak, of course, of successive 
holders of the title — for seventy years. We act now for the 
late lord’s widow, for his executors, and for the Lady Barbara 
Montgomery, who is an old and a valued client ; but of 
enemies we know nothing. You, young lady, are certainly not 
classed in that category by us. And ” — here his tone changed 


8o 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


to one of persuasion — “ it would be one of the happiest days 

in my life if I could contrive to reconcile ’’ 

“ Never ! ’’ The word was hissed out rather than spoken. 
“ I want my own — my rights. There is a law in England ; let 
it do me justice. Then I could forgive her — not till then. I 
came to you, sir, in hopes that you might aid me ;• but you will 
not. Castel Vawr, Leominster House, the great income — all 
are mine, and yet you will not befriend me.” Her voice sank 
almost into a wail here ; and Mr. Pontifex looked at her, as she 
hid her face between her gloved hands and bowed her fair 
head, with sincere compassion. All his previous knowledge 
was at fault here. He had no fathom-line whereby to guage 
the depths of a disposition so strange to his worldly lore. That 
her conduct merited, not sympathy, but punishment, he was 
certain. And yet it was pity of her. What evil influence 
could have warped from the path of common honesty a crea- 
ture so lovely and so innocent ! He had heard mention of that 
Madame de Lalouve whose malignant counsels were deemed to 
have been the jDrimary cause of mischief. Mr. Pontifex had 
himself no very good opinion of itinerant countesses of foreign 
birth and ubiquitous habits. He shook his head as he remem- 
bered the little he had heard of Countess Louise. 

“ I am an old man — old enough to be your father, young 
lady,” said Mr. Pontifex, not without a sort of dignity, such as 
earnestness and an honest purpose seldom fail to impart ; “ and 
I do assure you that it would be very pleasant to me to see 
your sister and yourself on friendly terms again ; and that I do 
venture to advise you, as I would advise my own daughter, to 
give up this hopeless undertaking. I will not, as some lawyers 
would, set before you as a scarecrow the enormous cost and 
the tedious length of legal proceedings. Believe me, a long 
lawsuit is like a long war. It breaks the health, and spoils the 
nature, and ruins the hopes of many who are innocent of any 
active share in it. It is even worse for the principals. I know 
many a rich and titled gentleman who groans over the struggle 
that pride and prejudice, and the Englishman’s stubborn re- 
solve not to be beaten, have made him carry on, amidst demur- 
rers and rebutments, changes of venue, notices of motion, 
prayers for new trials, appeals to superior courts, and eventu- 
ally to the House of Lords. If I were you, my dear young 
friend, I would take an old man’s adHce, and accept once more 
the bright and becoming position in the world for which no 

one could be more qualified. Your sister’s influence would ” 

“ My sister ! I cannot listen with patience, Mr. Pontifex, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


Si 


kindly as you mean, to such advice as you would force upon 
me. I have made up my mind, after much thought and much 
self-communing, and I am not to be turned aside by fear or by 
persuasion from my destined path in life. I gather from what 
you have said, Mr. Pontifex, though you have been very good 
to me, that I must look for- help elsewhere. I must seek it, 
then, where I can. Unhappily, I know very little of London, 
and still less of the world,” said the visitor, as she rose to go. 

There was a sort of civilian chivalry in Mr. Pontifex that 
would not let her leave him thus. He, personally, could not 
help her. He had indeed the worst opinion of her cause ; and 
besides, he was pledged to the Marchioness of Leominster de 
facto^ and to her imperious relative Lady Barbara ; but he did 
not like to see her depart solitary, sad, and forlorn, like some 
damsel of the mediaeval times who could find no champion to 
break a lance for her in the lists. 

“ One moment,” said the lawyer. “ I will write a note to 
some colleagues of ours, if I may say so, with whom we have 
frequent communication — solicitors of the very highest repute 
— Messrs. Hawke and Heronshaw, of Brick Court, Temple — 
able men and honorable men. Excuse me ; ” and he penned 
a few lines, inclosed them in an envelope, sealed it, and almost 
forced it into the little gloved hand that took it timidly. 

“You think ” said she hesitatingly. 

“ I am sure,” resumed the lawyer, with perfect conviction, 
“ that if Messrs. Hawke and Heronshaw can see their way to 
help you, they will do so. They are free from the ties that 
hamper ourselves ; and if they see the case as I most reluc- 
tantly am compelled to see it, you may perhaps be induced to 
— to think it over again before a decided scandal occurs, which 
I, as an old well-wisher to the family, should be the first to 
deplore. — Mr. Jupper ! ” 

Escorted by Mr. Jupper, the visitor got away from the legal 
premises of Pounce and Pontifex, and back to her carriage, 
which presently conveyed her to the chambers of Messrs. 
Hawke and Heronshaw. 


82 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

BRICK COURT, TEMPLE. 

The chambers or offices of H. and H., as irreverent young 
clerks dubbed those alliteratively named lights of the laws, 
Messrs Hawke and Heronshaw, were larger, handsomer, better 
lighted, and furnished in a more modern style than were those 
of Pounce and Pontifex. There were not, possibly, quite so 
many japaned deed-boxes inscribed with the names of so many 
illustrious families ; but for all that, Hawke and Heronshaw had 
a great connection and must have netted a large income for 
many a year past. Mr. Hawke himself, a big florid man, 
with shaggy eyebrows and a trick of rattling his massive 
watch-chain, received the fair applicant with politeness, express- 
ed his wish to do his best for a lady recommended by his 
esteemed friends Pounce and Pontifex, and was dextrous and 
delicate in the questioning necessary to elucidate the points 
not touched upon in Mr. Pontifex’s brief note. Altogether, 
Mr. Hawe had very much the look and manner of a consulting 
surgeon in great practice, and who has come to look on his 
fellow-creatures as very brittle organisms, sure to have a flaw 
somewhere. He was very careful and skilful in the diagnosis, 
so to speak, of this particular case ; but when he had made it 
out, he knit his brows and shook his head discouragingly. 
“ The thing can’t be done, madam,” he said, civilly, but with au- 
thority. “ I for one, should recommend you to give up the 
hopeless attempt, and to effect a reconciliation with Lady — with 
your sister — as speedily as possible. Nothing but distress of 
mind, annoyance, and waste of money, can accrue from the 
course of conduct which you now seem inclined to pursue. 
And I suspect that Mr. Pontifex has used much the same lan- 
guage as I have held it my duty to use.” 

So he had, and so the client felt ; but there had been a 
difference in the modes of expression of these two distinguished 
legal practitioners. Mr. Pontifex, a family lawyer of the inner- 
most circle of legal Brahmins, had never ceased to feel a human 
interest in those for whom he caused acres of parchment in- 
^ribed with the time-honored jargon of the profession to be 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR 


83 

fairly engrossed, and had cherished a well-spring of sentiment 
in the midst of that arid desert of grim technicalities wherein 
he plied his trade. With Mr Hawke it was quite otherwise. 
He resembled one of those superhuman surgeons who care no 
more for a patient than the vivisectionist cares for the poor dog 
that has fallen into his scientific clutches, and who yet care a 
great deal for tile chance of a cure. With him, law was a game, 
just as chess and whist, and golfe and cricket, are games. The 
clients represented the balls, or the pawns, or the pieces of 
painted pasteboard ; while the players were the legal advisers. 
But an honest whist-player will not employ the marked cards 
which form the sharper’s stock-in-trade, and Hawke and Heron- 
shaw would as soon have stood in the pillory at once, as have 
undertaken the conduct of a cause likely to make their names 
a byword with press and public. 

“You will not help me, then; I must go elsewhere,” said 
the claimant of the Leominster honors ; and as she spoke, her 
head drooped despondingly forward between her small hands. 
A sunbeam — Mr. Hawke’s windows were cleaner than those of 
Mr. Pontifex — streamed through the nearest pane, as the sun 
broke through the fleecy summer clouds, and fell on that beauti- 
ful head, down-bent by sorrow. Mr Hawke never forgot that 
picture, and never could think of it in after-life without a twinge 
of something like regret. So lovely a creature did seem to 
deserve a champion. 

Presently the visitor raised her face and rose from her chair. 
The blue eyes were hard and tearless now. “ I have trespassed 
already on your time, sir, and have only to thank you for your 
advice — well intended I am sure, but which I cannot follow,” 
she said coldly. 

Mr. Hawke was very sorry, so he said, and so he felt, for 
the moment. He had dealt with obstinate clients before, bent 
on their own ruin, doggedly resolved to fight it out to the last 
sixpence under the banner of a hopeless cause. But these had 
been bull-necked, choloricmen, or, more rarely, gaunt, thin-lipped 
spinsters, soured by some family feud, and eager to pursue the 
legal vendetta to the bitter end. He had never known a mere 
girl to persist so stubbornly ; and while, like Mr. Pontifex, he 
thought the worse of her for being obdurate to his counsels, he 
grieved for her too, for he thought he saw, better than she could 
do, the shoals and quicksands that lay before her. 

“ Law is a very expensive pastime,” he said with a pitying 
smile. 

“ I thought the very poorest— and I, until I get my own am 


84 ONE FALSE BOTH FAIR. 

poor indeed — might have justice, here in our own England,’* 
answered the rejected client with sudden spirit. 

“ Heaven forbid it should be otherwise ! ” said Mr. Hawke, 
hastily. “ No, no ; this is no oriental country where the cadi 
decides for the suitor who can offer the heaviest bribe. With 
a very clear case, you may go into court with empty pockets, 
and win. But — excuse me, young lady — not'one case out of a 
thousand is quite of that transparent clearness that it appears 
to be in the excited eyes of parties themselves. A long purse 
is as useful in a lawsuit as in actual warfare securing as it does 
the best talent, and enabling, as it does, evidence to be hunted 
up from every nook and corner. It is the truest kindness to tell 
you the unwelcome truth at once. No solicitor of standing 
would take up this case of yours without a guarantee for heavy 
costs, and many, like ourselves, would feel compelled to de- 
cline it, even were thqt guarantee forthcoming.” 

Again in her brougham, or rather in her brother’s brougham 
rattling through the weary, unsympathetic streets, all filled with 
people jostling and hurrying on their separate errands, towards 
Bruton Street, the fair applicant for legal assistance threw her- 
self back in a corner of the shabby little carriage and sobbed 
aloud. But not for long. She raised her head again, and 
shook off every semblance of emotion. “ Shall I give it up ? ” 
she said, with a strange little smile. “ After all, perhaps, I 
should be happier. But no ; never, never, never ! No turning 
back, now. I will go on with it till I die ! ” 

The servant who admitted her when she reached her brother’s 
house, told her that a lady, a foreign lady, as she thought had 
called, and would take no denial, and was awaiting her return 
in the drawing-room. For a moment she hesitated, but then 
ascended the stairs, and after another pause of hesitation, 
opened the door of the drawing-room and found herself as she 
had expected, in the presence of Madame de Lalouve. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

CHINESE JACK. 

A DARK night on the river. It was summer ; but there was 
a raw damp chill in the moist air. The day had been fine ; 
but now a high wind had set in from the seaward, eliciting a 
noisiter splash and ripple than usual from the rising tide, that 


ONE FALSE, BO TIL FAIR. 


8s 

swirled around the quays, and tested the moorings of the many 
barges and light craft at anchor there, above-bridge, on that 
London Thames, that is so different from the silver Thames 
beloved of swans, some score or two of miles away. There 
was no moon, and a drizzle of rain kept falling from the murky 
sky. It was not an inviting evening, nor was the spot — a dull 
little wharf, at the foot of one of those dark streets that run 
steeply down from the Strand to the river — a tempting one. 
Yet, in this delectable solitude, seated on a sturdy stump of 
battered timber — it had been a fragment of a mast, possibly, to 
which, when convenient, chains or cables were made fast — was 
a well dressed man, surveying the black stream and the dim 
outlines of the neighboring buildings, as contentedly as though 
he had been gazing at the loveliest prospect in the world. 

It has been said that the man was well dressed. So he was, 
in the sense that his clothes, of shiny black broadcloth and 
fine texture, were new and good. They hung loosely on him, 
though, as if ready made. The hat was new and glossy too ; 
and so was the silken neck-scarf with its glittering pin ; and 
so were the boots, well blacked and bright. There were no 
gloves on the lean brown hands ; but several rings glistened 
on the long lithe fingers, which had that peculiar plasticity 
that we habitually associate with the hands of a sailor. And in- 
deed, the man’s apparel might very well have been, in its first 
maiden freshness, the shore-going attire of some officer of the 
merchant service, a maritime dandy in his way. There he sat, 
and there he smoked, an ugly smile, meantime, lurking about 
the corners of a mouth that was by nature anything but 
repulsive to look upon. A fine-looking man enough, tall, thin- 
flanked, broad across the chest ; exactly the sort of recruit that 
in the army they call a “ sergeant major’s man,” and whom 
judicious colonels put in the front rank. He was not young — 
in the prime of life, perhaps — for there w’as a little silver 
mingling with the dark auburn of the hair and beard ; while the 
face, handsome as far as features went, was tanned to a swarthy 
brownness by the tropic sun, and seamed by innumerable 
wrinkles, as fine as if their delicate lines had been traced by 
the point of a needle. The eyes of themselves would have 
attracted notice anywhere, so bright were they, and yet so 
chameleon like in color and expression. It could have been 
no common character to whom those restless eyes belonged. 

There he sat, alone, listening to the melancholy sound of 
the fast rising tide, and the barking of dogs on board of vessels 
far away, and the distant roar of the great thoroughfare at the 


86 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

other end of the steep and narrow street that debouched upon 
the wharf. 

“ A cheerful nook this,” he muttered to himself, from be- 
neath his bushy beard — “ a cheerful nook for a philosopher, to 
choose for the scene of his meditations. I’ve known worse, 
though,” he added, with a sort of chuckle, due, probably, to some 
reminiscence that suddenly occurred to him — “ very much 
worse. Paramatta Point is not an earthly Eden, nor is the prison 
of the Board of Punishments at Pekin exactly an abode of bliss. 
Pity, that Dante before he wrote his Inferno^ could not have 
knocked about the world as I have done, and seen some of the 
sights that I have seen — such as Old Florence could not show 
the poet,'’ 

The speaker’s intonation was perfect, and his voice a good 
one ; but there was something in the peculiar ring of it that 
would have jarred upon the ear of a listener, something cynical, 
hard and cold. For a while he smoked on in silence, and 
then, with a sort of involuntary shudder, tossed away the end 
of his cigarette, and watched the little fiery speck as it floated 
for a moment on the black water below the wharf’s edge, and 
then went out. 

“ It’s chilly here,” he muttered. “ England gives but cold 
comfort, as usual, to the prodigal returned from sunnier climates. 
And yet — and yet, there is more to be picked up under this 
foggy sky, than anywhere I know of from Peru to Zanzibar. 
Will the great prize in the lottery turn up for me this time ? 
Dame Fortune certainly owes me a successful spin of her 
ladyship’s auriferous wheel by now, for the world has dealt but 
hardly of late years with Chinese Jack. Beachcomber on a 
South Sea island, bonnet to a Californian gambling house, 
captain of an Arab slave dhow, that the boats of Her Majesty’s 
Ship Vulture captured in the Red Sea. Lucky for me that I 
was able to play as well as to dress the character ! Little did 
Her Majesty’s officers — how well I remember them in the 
gold-braided caps, on the man-of-war’s quarter-deck, as I raised 
my shackled hands and made my respectful salaam — little did 
those navy lads think that I, the prisoner, the Arab slaver- 
dog, understood every word they said as well as they did 
themselves. — “ Not half-bad ! ” — wasn’t I ? It was a lieuten- 
ant who said so ; and then the paymaster added : “ Their 
religion, you know.” Well-read young fellow, that paymaster ! 
He knew all about us Moslems, didn’t he ? Am I a Moslem, 
by the way, or is it Confucius that I stand by ? — as when I was 
head secretary to that poor fellow Ksing-Tse, the mandarin. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


87 

At any rate, the British naval officers never dreamed that Ali 
Hassan, the turbaned skipper of the dhow they caught at 
anchor, with a cargo of live ebony on board, was John, only 

son of the Reverend” Here an expression of genuine pain 

came across his reckless face, and he sprang up from his seat 
with a wicked look in his flashing eyes, as though his conscience 
pricked him, and he would have been thankful for some 
scapegoat for his anger. A moment afterwards, and he was 
able to laugh at his own emotion. “ I really thought,” he said 
cheerily, “ that I saw the old place again — the parsonage gate ; 
my sisters, poor girls, coming home from church in their spruce 
Sunday frocks ; my father worthy man, with rebuke in his 
eyes, because I had idled away the time that might have been 
spent in harkening to the sermon it had cost him many a pain- 
ful hour to prepare ; the blue mountains — Alps as I thought 
them then, mole-hills as I know them now to be, since these 
eyes have looked on Andes and Himalaya — in the background ; 
and in front, the castle of my lord, Castel Vawr. Yes ; it is 
very real and very rich, is Castel Vawr.” 

He laughed briefly ; and then, quitting the wharf, ascended 
the stony little street, at the upper end of which, full of bustle 
and feverish life, was the noisy Strand ; while below ran, black 
and swift and silent, the great river, without which London 
would never have been the London that we know. In the 
middle of Jane Seymour Street — all these parallel alleys seem 
to bear the names of those whom our crowned ruffian. King 
Harry, sent to the block — is an odd little private hotel, which 
tries, through the medium of fly-leaves in Bradshaw's Railway 
Guide, and of advertisements in north-country newspapers, to 
convince an economic public that it is very cheap. This place of 
entertainment is known as Budger's Hotel. It is, strictly 
speaking, and has been wdthin the memory of man, Mrs. 
Budger’s Hotel. There may have been a Budgers of the male 
sex ; but he must have died very long ago, since the oldest 
frequenter of the Jane Seymour Street hostelry remembers that 
portentous black bonnet with the red artiflcial flowers. In this 
private hotel, as dingy, narrow and airless a den as can well be 
matched in London, the soliloquist of the wharf was evidently a 
valued guest. 

“ Any letters for the Captain, Bob ? called out Mrs. 
Budgers to the pasty-faced waiter, in response to the inquiry of 
her newly returned inmate. 

“ No, ma’am,” said Bob, as his unwholesome complexion 
and the dirty napkin twisted round his professional thumb be- 


38 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

came visible in the doorway of the contracted coffee-room ; 
“ nuffim’^ 

But Bob the waiter ducked his head respectfully, as the 
Captain’s fiery eye encountered that parboiled optic of his. 
Manifestly, the bronzed guest was not known under that roof 
by the queer name of Chinese Jack; and manifestly, too, he 
was considered as a solvent and a liberal customer, worthy of 
lip-loyalty and of conciliation. Mrs. Budgers of Jane Seymour 
Street had the oddest clients : out at-elbows clergymen, with 
anxious-eyed wives ; snug ministers of strange little sects, 
from Wales or Cornwall ; lean lecturers in flapping coats, and 
whose eagerness to exhort all London from the platform was 
only equalled by their self-denying thrift ; rough northern 
fanners and rougher mining managers ; and sun-tanned 
persons from the other side of the world, who did not seem 
exactly to have made the fortune that they sought, either by 
wool or gold. All these varying clients had one point in 
common — an inveterate dislike to parting, except upon com- 
pulsion, with a stray sixpence or an extra shilling, a quality 
more hateful than any other in the eyes of a struggling inn- 
keeper. Now the Captain was, according to Jane Seymour 
Street ideas, pretty much what a Russian Prince or an Ameri- 
can Silver King appears to the managers of the Grand Hotel 
in Paris. 

‘•‘Never mind.— Nice evening, Mrs. Budgers, said the 
Captain genially, as he leaned his elbow on the low narrow 
counter that crossed the half door of the frowsy bar. 

Mrs. Budgers coughed behind her black worsted mittens. 
She was used to hear tart complaints from surly men and dis- 
contented women, from the country, of the damp, the darkness, 
the gloom, and uninviting aspect of Jane Seymour Street. She 
was unused to praise of any sort, and with reference even to so 
harmless a subject as the weather, and she almost feared that 
her customer’s eulogistic words might veil a sarcasm. It was 
a nasty night ; but then it was just possible that the Captain, 
freshly returned from abroad, as she knew, might have come 
from foreign parts where the nights were nastier, and might re- 
gard that clammy evening in the Strand purlieus as something 
cheerful and exhilarating. 

“We must take ’em as they come,” was the landlady’s 
hesitating answer ; “ and what I always do say is, that with 
water above and water below, and so central, the situation is 
the healthiest in London ! ” There may have been a vagueness 
in the reasoning ; but Mrs. Budgers had made the statement a 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 89 

few times before, and believed in the truth of what she said, as 
we all get to'^believe in the truth of what w'e habitually say. 

“ I should judge so by your looks, Mrs. Budgers,” returned 
the guest smoothly but archly — a polite personage that Captain 
— and as a woman is never too old for a compliment, Mrs. 
Budgers bridled, and blushed a darker crimson than before. 

“ Won’t you take something, sir, before you go upstairs ? ” 
asked the smiling landlady, motioning with her black worsted 
mittens towards a shelf stocked with insidious bottles, painted 
all over with golden grapes, but the contents of which probably 
owed less to the grape than to grain and potatoes. 

The Captain would take something. He tossed off the 
glassful of liquid fire that Mrs. Budgers poured out for him, 
politely prefacing the dram with : “ Your health ma’am ; ” and 

then, with a nod, passed on, up the dark and irregular stairs, 
and reached his room. 

The Captain’s private sitting-room was on the first-floor, and 
the Captain’s bedchamber adjoined it. Both were low-ceiled, 
and ineffably dingy as to the furniture and general appointments. 
But the gas in the first-mentioned apartment was flaring brightly, 
and gave an air of almost cheerfulness and almost comfort to 
the shabby surroundings. ■ The Captain unlocked a neat little 
writing-case of shiny yellow leather — all his luggage, as might 
be seen by peeping through the door, now ajar, of his bedroom, 
was neat and ostentatiously new, like his wearing apparel — and 
took from an inner compartment a sealskin tobacco-pouch, a 
small brass-mounted horn such as Moors use for carriage of 
the fine gunpowder they still employ for priming, a very little 
horn-spoon, and a bundle of empty cigarette papers. Clearly, 
the Captain preferred making up the cigarettes for his own 
consumption, to buying them, as less careful smokers do, ready- 
made. Very dexterously and quickly he mingled the fragrant 
light-hued tobacco from the pouch with a gray, pungent-smelling, 
sickly drug, which, by the aid of the tiny^ spoon, he extracted 
from the horn, rolled up with practised fingers some dozen or 
so of the cigarettes, and kindling one of them, sat down in the 
biggest and easiest of the arm-chairs, and with his head thrown 
back, smoked for a while silently, and with an air of dreamy 
enjoyment, such as the panther might have shown when basking 
on a sunny bank in some inaccessible forest of the Terai. 

Never, it might safely have been sard, had so incompre- 
hensible a customer darkened the doors of Mrs. Budger’s house 
of public entertainment, portals which nevertheless had opened 
in their time to give admission to odd samples of humanity. 


ONE EALSE, BOTH EA/R. 


90 

This man was a living enigma. Unscrupulous, designing, art- 
ful as he evidently was, he had yet retained, through who knew 
what experiences, a certain charm of manner, which is never 
found except among the educated. It suited him just then to 
play the modern merchant captain returned from a prosperous 
voyage ; and probably he could have sustained the part with 
perfect ease even at that time-honored skippers’ house of call, 
the Jerusalem Coffee-house. The old salts of a rougher school 
who frequented the place might have growled at him as a Jemmy 
Jessamy and a dandy; but they would have credited him with 
being seaman enough to fight his vessel manfully through white 
squall or typhoon. Had he chosen to act the soldier, or the 
commercial traveller, or the thoughtful artisan of superior at- 
tainments, or — most difficult character of all to assume — to 
pose as a gentleman of refined manners and cultured mind, he 
would have acquitted himself equally well. And yet in every 
one of these parts there would have been a lurking glitter in 
his keen eye, a mocking ring in his not unmusical voice, to cry. 
Beware ! 

He smoked the first three of his medicated cigarettes in 
silence ; and then, in a low but distinct tone, resumed the self- 
communings which had been interrupted when he left the wharf. 

“ An odd trick, this of mine, of talking to myself,” he mut- 
tered ; “ but it has served to prevent my tongue from growing 
rusty, ay, and my English from slipping its cable altogether, and 
leaving me with nothing but a score of queer dialects jumoling 
together in my memory. Welsh, perhaps, might have stuck to 
me longer. It was in Welsh, I’m sure, that I cried aloud for 
help, when that rascally Dyak sea-robber, my master, had buried 
me, his Christian runaway slave, neck deep in the anthill on the 
beach, and, as good luck would have it, the war-fieet of the op- 
position pirates landed their cutthroats just in time to prevent 
the ants from picking my bones as white as ivory. I have 
brushed through, by the skin of my teeth, as our Yankee cousins 
say, pretty often for one man,” he added boastfully, and yet 
with a sort of sadness in his tone. 

He lit a fresh cigarette, and then went on, dreamily, but yet 
m a voice that in one of the old aristocratic salons of the 
Faubourg St. Germain would have been hearkened to with 
respect, as having the old aristocratic ring, so sweet, so true, so 
confident, m the modulations of a life’s training. “ I am set 
aside I am sure I am,” he said, between the puffs of the slender 
cigarette, for a purpose. I must do something, I am certain, 
worth the doing, before I lose the number of my mess. Well, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


91 

well, we cats of nine lives — mine should be of ninety and nine 
— when I reckon Negroes and Chinese, Malays and Turks and 
Melanesians, as among those who wanted, not to “ watch over 
the life of poor Jack,’^ but to shorten it with crooked sword and 
spear and war-club, and poison — ought to accomplish something 
on this side the grave. We have — so the proverb says — three 
chances. Perhaps my greatest chance was when I was Ksing- 
Tse’s chief secretary — he was a mere tumbling lump of flesh 
and silk, with the red coral Viceroy’s button on his black cap 
— and all the dollars and cash strings, and silver bars, the jewels, 
the silk, the tea, of the frightened taxpayers of the province rain- 
ing into the vice-regal palace as fast as laden porters and hurry- 
ing bullocks could bring them. How could I tell that our prov- 
ince — ours — was selected for the fatal squeeze ; that the golden 
sponge was to be wrung dry for the benefit of the Pekin Treas- 
ury ; that the Emperor’s uncle wanted a new marble palace and 
gardens and fishponds, out of the spoils of his discarded Ex- 
cellency, my master, whom they Did they strangle him ? 

or was it mere transportation to Tibet ? At any rate, they took 
away all my hoard-^I had feathered my nest nicely — there 
were rubies and pearls, as well as the heavy gold and silver ; 
but the Chinese know how to search. I was a beggar when 
I worked my passage from Macao to Singapore ; but then I was 
young and strong and had the world before me. 

“My English captors, the other da)^” he resumed after a 
few more whiffs, “ were very gentle with the poor misguided 
Moslem who bought cheap blacks in Africa and sold them dear 
in Arabia and Persia. They never thought of looking in my 
coarse cotton cummerbund, where Ali Hassan had sewn-in the 
good heavy ounces of gold dust, bought with negro flesh and 
elephant tusks, arid a fight sometimes, among the baobab trees 
of Africa. They actually subscribed a few shillings apiece to 
send the Arab captain — since he was so respectable a Mussul- 
man, five times a day ready with the basin and the praying 
carpet — from Suez to Cairo and Alexandria. Then it came 
about that the serang — the native boatswain — of the Cyprus 
should sicken and die ; and I, who can patter Hindustani as a 
Buddhist monk his invocations, should be chosen to take his 
place, as Ali Hassan, always. Even the Indian lascar fellows 
called me Hadji Ali Hassan, and thought me a sort of seafaring 
saint. And then those two lovely creatures came on board, and 
I heard the old name and read it on the labels of the luggage, 
and remembered Castel Vawr and the Welsh hills: and soon 
gleaned from the gabble of the prating passengers, who deemed 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


92 

the lascar boatswain a nobody, the story of the widowhood and 
of the rich inheritance. 

“ And then I saw her. I saw her, again and again ; and 
though she has the eyes of a lynx and the cunning of a demon, 
she never saw me, or realized, if she did see me, under the 
shelter of my beard, my turban, and my tanned face, that I was 

Ah, well ! She, of all woman, to be there. Not for 

nothing, I knew, when I saw her hovering about those girls like 
an eagle round a dove’s nest. She was on the scent of prey. 
Of course she won. She always wins. But little did she dream, 
that wet, wild morning after the storm, that somebody — 
somebody whose bare feet made no sound upon the deck — lis- 
tened behind the boat, and understood — what no Mohammedan 
could have gathered, from the talk. — Ah, well,” said the Cap- 
tain sleepily, “ it seemes to me as if a fortune ought — But I 
think I can spoil her little game ” — and then he ceased speak- 
ing; and presently went to bed and slept soundly. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“give me time.” 

Within the Bruton street drawing-room the foreign Coun- 
tess came gracefully forward, both of her exquisitely gloved 
hands extended, to greet her youthful hostess, who, on her 
part, started back like a frightened bird. Nothing could be 
more appropriate than Madame de Lalouve’s manner. Every 
gesture, every look, was perfect of its kind. Her whole bear- 
ing belonged to that highest art that cannot be distinguished 
from nature. “ I fear,” she said, in a tone of sweet reproach, 
“ that my visit is an unwelcome surprise. And yet — well as I 
know the fragile character of friendships, alas, you sadden me. 
Yes, my dear Mademoiselle, you sadden me. Oh, Miss Carew, 
Can it be that already you have learned the worldly lesson to 

forget, and that all our pleasant companionship ” 

“ What ! you too — do you also come here to insult me ? 
Why, else, do you call me by that name of Miss Carew ? ” was 
the petulant interruption to this smooth speech. “ I am Lady 
Leominster. Do you not know me for what I am ? Your ad- 
dress, Countess Louise, to me is not that of a friend. I tell 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


93 


you,” added the speaker, with quivering lips, “ that I am the 
Marchioness — and not — and not — that other one.” 

“ Now, my very dear young friend,” was the soothing reply, 
couched in honeyed accents, of the foreign lady, “ you must not 
be angry, not vexed with Louise de Lalouve, your old friend of 
Egypt. If she offends, it is for your own good, my child. To 
me, to my maturer years, to my larger experience, you are but 
as a charming child. It is the privilege of age, of course, to 
guide you, who are still on the threshold of the world. Now, 
but yesterday I was received at Leominster House, and saw 
your sister. She was looking very well, was our dear Clare ; 
but perhaps ” 

“ This is insufferable ! ” broke in Sir Pagan’s sister, wring- 
ing her hands. She had forgotten, in her agitation, the pri- 
mary duties of hospitality; but both were seated now, the 
young hostess on the sofa near which she had been standing ; 
the visitor in the amplest of the old-fashioned arm-chairs, with 
her back judiciously turned to the tell-tale summer sunlight 
that poured through the windows, even in London. Thus seen, 
Madame de Lalouve looked remarkably well preserved, a 
grand, stately woman, with inscrutable eyes, and features that 
harmonized well with the marble clearness of her creamy com- 
plexion and the raven blackness of her massive hair. She was 
superbly dressed, almost without ornament, save a stray an- 
tique jewel in dead gold, from some Cypriote or Phoenician 
tomb, but with all the skill that Worth’s ateliet' will never dis- 
play but for the benefit of a valued customer — Spanish lace and 
Lyons silk and Genoa velvet falling harmoniously into their 
allotted places, like the notes and bars of music in the score of 
a competent composer. 

“ Our dear Clare received me in her London palace very 
graciously,” continued the foreign Countess, with as assured a 
manner as though her real interview with Lady Leominster had 
not been a surreptitious one in Kensington Gardens ; “ and as 
a fortunate chance deprived us both for the moment of the ed- 
ifying society of Lady Barbara, we could open our hearts to one 
another. Then it was that the sweet young Marquise lamented 
to me the fact that her sister, so loved, was now separated from 
her ; then it was that she craved of me the trifling service, wil- 
lingly rendered, that I should call here in Bruton Street, at the 
house of your brother, Sir Carew, and should use my poor pow- 
ers of persuasion to induce you, mon enfant, at her loving prayer, 
to return to her, and be her sister and her friend again, that all 
might go on as merrily and as fondly as of other time,” 


94 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


Madame de Lalouve spoke very good English indeed, and 
her accent in especial was all but faultless ; but she had the 
defect of thinking in French, and translating afterwards into 
our vernacular, and hence her speech occasionally lapsed into 
Gallic idioms and turns of language. It was quite otherwise, 
it may be mentioned, with that other linguist, who had also 
come to England from Egypt on board the good steamship 
Cyprus, and whose nickname was Chinese Jack. He was one 
of those polyglot talkers who are possessed of the rare but val- 
uable gift of thinking in any articulate tongue, living or dead, 
from Hebrew to Japanese, and therefore of expressing his 
thoughts as a Malay, or a Persian, or a Spaniard would do, not 
as a cultured scholar with an elaborate acquaintance with the 
language would do. 

French, or Russian ? Of which nationality was the Count- 
ess ? Both guesses as to her dubious nationality were compat- 
ible with either supposition, since a Russian child of' noble 
blood learns to lisp from the care not of her mother, but of her 
French, Swiss, English nursery-governess, never of her sullen, 
cruel Russian nurse. There are races that furnish good nurses 
— the Hindus in Asia, the Negroes, the European nations 
usually — not the Russian. Many a highly educated Russian, 
with stars on the breast of his uniform, many a noble and beau- 
tiful young Muscovite lady, shudders at the recollection of the 
baleful Glumdalca that was as a shadow and a scarecrow of 
their infancy. 

Madame de Lalouve, then, said what she had been prepared 
to say, very well and very prettily. The immediate effect of 
her speech was that the golden-haired girl whom she addressed 
flung herself recklessly down upon the sofa and buried her face 
amongst the crimson cushions. “ I cannot — oh, I cannot ; it is 
too much to ask ! ” she sobbed out wildly. 

The Sphinx contemplated her with the serenest scientific 
composure. Women have commonly a sort of freemasonry 
with women, and a touch of real emotion rarely fails to stir 
their hearts. But the foreign Countess kept herself quite cool 
and sceptical. She took another chair, less heavy, and drew it 
towards the sofa. Then she laid her hand, with that light firm 
touch of hers, on the girl’s arm. “ Pray, be calm,” she said, in 
strangely business-like accents. “ Listen, I beg, to what I say. 
All is not as it seems. It rests with me — me — entendez vous ? 
— to let the curtain draw up and disclose a new scene. I am 
not here as the mere ambassadress of Miladi at the palace of 
Leominster, I am no mouthpiece, I am Louise de Lalouve ; 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


95 

and I have come to make a proposition to you ; and I beseech 
that, for your own sake, love, you will listen to me.” 

Slowly, very slowly. Sir Pagan’s beautiful young sister raised 
herself from her recumbent attitude, and fixed her wondering 
eyes, in which the tears still swam, on the face of her myste- 
rious acquaintance. As she did so, she looked so strangely 
lovely, her golden hair thrust carelessly back, her color flutter- 
ing in her delicately rounded cheeks, that an Associate of the 
Royal Academy would have made his fortune by truthfully 
painting her portrait. As it was, Madame de Lalouve, a keen 
judge, thought to herself : “ What raw material of beauty 
thrown away — these dupes and gulls of islanders ! ” and then, 
artistically lowering her admirably managed voice, went on : 
“ I feel deeply for you, dear young friend, for you, and for the 
painful position, that every day must have a thorn the more. I 
— I am most anxious to help you ; but, child, it is a hard world, 
and I, too, have had a rugged path to tread, and much ingrati- 
tude to bear. If you would promise to be the friend of Louise 
— to remember what you owe to the lonely foreigner, when she 
in her turn wants your aid, I might be of use. Through me — 
but through me only — your own little schemes, darling, might 
be forwarded. You might assume your sister’s place, and be 
acknowledged, with the assent of all, as Marchioness of Leo- 
minster.” 

“ But I am the Marchioness of Leominster; I am poor Wil- 
fred’s wife — widowed wife ; it is that. Countess, that you — you 
who know the world, so cruelly refuse to believe,” answered 
the girl, half turning her head towards the cool, steady-brained 
foreign lady. 

A smile of polite incredulity flitted across the face of Mad- 
ame de Lalouve — to vanish, however, as moisture vanishes 
from the surface of a mirror. It was very seldom that the 
Sphinx betrayed any sense of amusement. She was essentially 
diplomatic. Whatever she did was done of set purpose. Her 
grand, comdly countenance was as grave as that of a judge 
about to pass sentence, one minute later, when she took the 
hand of the girl beside her, and said earnestly : “ Let it not be 
a question of this, between us two. Let us, if we are to be 
allies, at least speak openly and honestly between ourselves. 
Here, in this solitude, there can be no need to mystify. You 
wish to have Leominster House and Castel Vawr, and the great 
fortune — del ! how great ! — and to be Miladi the Marquise of 
Leominster. What more natural ? I am willing, and I think 
^ble, to effect this. Only between us two confederates, us twp 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR 


96 

friends, there should be no high morality, no question of -ab- 
stract rights. We are behind the scenes, as it were, and should 
talk freely. Let the thing stand as it is. Nothing succeeds 
like success. Louise de Lalouve is a good pilot through trou- 
bled waters. Let the alfair be simply — the alfair. I may have 
— and I have — my own little wishes and' objects, which I hope 
you will promote in return for what I shall do for you. But 
above all, let us be frank between ourselves ” 

Here she was interrupted, as, with a flushed cheek and 
flashing eye, the girl sprang to her feet. “ No ; never, never ! ’’ 
was her passionate retort. “ I will never admit, even to you, 
even tacitly, that there can rest so much as the shadow of a 
doubt upon my claim and my right. What I profess to be, that 
I am ; and not even in private will f yield an inch of my van- 
tage-ground, or go back from what I have said.” 

This was spoken with an energy for which the foreign 
Countess had scarcely been prepared. Madame de Lalouve 
bit her lip, and her dark eyebrows contracted. Was it that she 
felt as if her pupil were growing dangerously headstrong, and 
might get beyond her control, to the detriment of her own in- 
terests, and the spoiling of those eventual schemes of which her 
shrewd monitress had made mention ? An acute and practised 
judge of character, the Russo-Frenchwoman seemed to think 
that she had gauged that of her young friend by too conven- 
tional a standard. But while she looked frowningly on, the 
sudden outburst of excitement seemed to die away, and with a 
faint sigh and averted head the beautiful girl sank back on the 
sofa, and hid her face, murmuring, as if unconscious of the 
listener’s presence ; “ And yet, why not ? What rnatter ? What 
can it matter by what rugged roads I travel, so that I attain my 
end, and reach the goal at last ! And yet I am so utterly alone. 
O that I had some one to advise me ! ” And she sobbed aloud. 

Madame de Lalouve’s brow relaxed, and her smile came 
back to the lately stern and anxious mouth. After all, she re- 
flected, it was better so, and gave tokens of a more malleable 
nature, and one more fit to be moulded to her purpose. If 
Mephistopheles could be imagined in female form, Madame de 
Lalouve must have looked very like the arch tempter of the 
German legend, as she sat there in her darkling strength, with 
her burning eyes surveying the fair drooping head, and an in- 
definable expression, that partook of the nature of scorn and of 
grim humor, lurking about her firm lips. She waited — with 
the cruel patience of the angler, who lets the newly-hooked 
trout tire itself before he touches the reel — until the storm had 


ONE FALSEy BOTH FAIR. 


97 

subsided ; and then Sir Pagan’s sister almost shuddered, as a 
light, strong hand was gently laid upon her slender wrist, and a 
soft voice said, caressingly : “ Let me advise you. You are 
groping in the dark ; but I can point the way to safety and suc- 
cess. Do not refuse. The help I proffer is well worth the 
having. Louise de Lalouve can be an ally as true as steel ; 
and, believe me, the little experience you have gained in your 
short life is, compared with mine, but as a waterdrop to the 
ocean. I have had harder diplomatic puzzles than this to solve, 
I can assure you, and have made my proofs, as French duel- 
lists say, when pitted against more formidable foes than any 
that I now expect to encounter on your behalf. That the help 
I offer is quite disinterested, ma chere^ I do not for a moment 
pretend ; nor, did I do so, would you credit me with being as 
sincere as I really am. I am no descendant of Don Quixote, 
quoi ! to redress wrongs and run tilt at windmills gratis. But 
I shall not be very exacting or unreasonable as to the recom- 
pence, of which it is as yet too early to speak with precision. 
What I wish to impress upon you is, that if you take me for 
your guide, there must be no half confidence, no drawing back. 
Obey my counsels, and you shall attain your object. The gates 
of Castel Vawr and of Leominster House shall fly open to re- 
ceive you — not on sufferance, not as a dependent, but as mis- 
tress of all, and ” 

“ Give me time,” pleaded the girl, speaking in a broken 
voice, slowly and hesitatingly. “ I cannot tell ; I cannot de- 
cide. Give me time, dear Countess Louise, to think it over. 
Leave me now, I beg of you. I am not fit to talk more at 
present. My brain seems as if on fire. Let me keep your ad- 
dress. I will write — I will call. But more I cannot say, just 
at this moment, Madame de Lalouve. I must have space for 
reflection. Only give me time.” 

Gracefully the foreign Countess rose to take her leave. 
“ Think of it, my angel,” she said soothingly and softly ; “ and 
think of me, whom a word will summon — like some slave of 
the Ring, or of the Lamp, in that version of the Arabian Nights 
that our Marquis de Galland brought into fashion — to your 
side. You think me hard, sweet one ; but you must not blame 
the oak because it is not as the willow. It is good at any rate, 
for the ivy to cling to, nestling and supported by its rough 
strength, able to resist the tempest. There ! I lay my card on 
the table. When you want me, I shall be here, always at your 
call.” She pressed the girl’s little hand, half-pityingly, it might 
have been thought, within the grasp of that far stronger hand 


Om FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


98 

of hers ; and then slipped silently away, without awaiting the 
usual formalities of leave-taking, as a lioness glides away on 
noiseless feet, passing like a tawny shadow through the cane- 
brake of the jungle and is gone. It used to be said in Egypt 
that the Sphinx was matchless in her exits as in her entries, 
and seemed to rise and vanish as through a trapdoor. When 
the girl looked around her half-timidly, she found herself alone. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MRS tucker’s lawyer. 

“ Now, My Lady “ Your Ladyship” you shall be to me, 

and to us true Devonshire hearts downstairs. Now, miss — My 
Lady — weVe laid our heads together in the basement here, and 
I, as bein’ the oldest servant, naturally took the lead, and so 
we’ve made our minds up. Breaks my heart, it does, begging 
pardon for the liberty, to see you, deary, driving away in Sir 
Pagan’s brougham, hunting after lawyers, and not getting ’em, 
covetous creatures ! You ’re laughing at me now, for an old 
goose, and quite right too.” 

It was worthy Mrs Tucker, the old housekeeper, who spoke, 
with what entire honesty and sincerity of purpose only those 
who have had to do with the waning class of loyal, old-world 
servants can thoroughly appreciate. It had been but a smile, 
not a laugh, that her words had summoned to the lips of that 
young creature, whose life was so solitary beneath the shelter 
of her brother’s rooftree. Now she rose, and kissed the kind 
old woman’s wrinkled cheek. “ You have done me good,” she 
said with a sense of evident relief. “ I feel sometimes, do you 
know, as if I should go mad here — it is so lonely, and all I 
meet with is distrust.” 

Mrs Tucker could not repress a little sob. At any rate, that 
sister of Sir Pagan Carew who dwelt in the gloomy Bruton 
Street house that had belonged to her grandfather and her 
great-grandfather, had made a conquest of her brother’s house- 
hold. Old Mrs Tucker the housekeeper had been the first 
convert ; and every man and maid, born and reared in Devon, 
and vassals, so to speak, to the broken-down, ever-honored 
House of Carew, would have faced the ordeals of fire and water, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


99 

on what seemed to be the losing side. James in shabby livery, 
Bob and Tom in the stables, were willing any day to tuck up 
their dingy cuffs and try fistic conclusions with the magnificent 
powdered footmen of Leominster House that their fair candidate 
was the true one, and the reigning sovereign a counterfeit. 
“ Kep’ out of her rights ! ” The yory phrase was enough to 
appeal to that honest, thoroughly natural and human hatred of 
injustice which is the most sincerely felt among the lower and 
the less taught classes, which has been the stock in trade of 
many an impostor, which made Cade master of London, and to 
this hour flings a sentimental halo around the Man in the Iron 
Mask. 

“ Now, my lady,” resumed Mrs. Tucker, “ weVe been 
turning the matter over ; and James, which his uncle Guppy 
was a master-builder at Heavitree near Exeter, and Susan, 
whose stepfather keeps the Bull at Sidmouth, have said what 
they thought ; and two very tidy legal gentlemen, I am sure, 
they knew of. But all agreed that my lawyer — Lawyer Ster- 
ling — see how he behaved about my poor husband Stephen 
Tucker’s bit o’ property ; and what a jewel of a man he proved 
to my poor only son Ned, that died out in Guate-Guava there. 
I never can pronounce the name of it, but it’s a hot place in 
South America, where the sun is always like the kitchen-fire, 
and where my poor boy was mining engineer, and sickened of 
broken heart and yellow-fever. It was owing to Mr. Sterling 
that he died in peVce and comfort, so he wrote me with his own 
shaky hand — that used to be so firm — because of the re- 
mittances ; for they had clapped him into prison, the Dons had 
— so he said — because he was an Englishman and a foreigner ; 
and his employers had run away, and the water couldn’t be 
pumped out — and so the rest of my poor husband’s money made 
his latter end comfortable, my lady ! ” summed up old Tucker, 
wiping her eyes. 

The gist of the old housekeeper’s well-meant advice was, as 
was presently discerned, that there lived in London a very 
sensible, kind, and honest solicitor, learned in the law, whose 
name was Sterling, whose reputation was high, “ though he’s 
one of us, miss, only by the mother’s side, which she was a 
Wharton, of Clovelly ; and if that isn’t a Devonshire woman, 
what is !” explained Mrs Tucker, commencing in a deprecat- 
ing fashion, and ending triumphantly ; “ for, otherwise, Mr. 
Sterling is a Yorkshireman. Chancery Lane he lives in, and 
both North and South go to him ; and if he can help ’em, he 
does do it.” 


lOO 


OME FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


Such good advice was not to be slighted ; though the timid 
offer which followed — “ And as lawyers must be paid, if seventy- 
nine pounds that I have saved, my dear young lady^ in your 
mother’s service, would ” was of course gratefully declined. 

The lady of whom we are speaking had not allowed herself 
to be discomfited by the failure of her attempts to influence Mr. 
Pontifex and Messrs. Hawke and Heronshaw. She had made 
her poor little forays into legal quarrers, and had always been 
sent empty away. One solicitor would, very properly, accept 
no client without a formal introduction. Another, perhaps still 
more properly, wanted a thousand pounds paid down as a 
preliminary, before entertaining the idea of so difficult and 
costly a suit. It was with repugnance that she had consulted 
her brother’s attorney, Mr Wickett, against whom, somehow, 
she had been prejudiced from the first, and who transacted 
business in very splendid, not to say flashy chambers, all gild- 
ing, plateglass, mirrors, and silken furniture, with champagne 
at hand for jovial clients, and curacoa and cherry brandy to 
brace the nerves of timid or rickety clients. The rooms them- 
selves were in no obscure court of the Temple or of the Inns, 
but in a conspicuous West-end thoroughfare,cr'owded every day, 
and had been originally fitted up by a thriving money-lender, 
who had since then retired on his gains. Mr. Wickett, the 
sporting lawyer, had been less respectful than any of the other 
attorneys with whom Sir Pagan’s sister had sought audience. 

“ It won’t do,” he said, standing, with his thumbs in his 
waistcoat pockets, and his varnished boots and cord-ed riding- 
trousers a good deal apart. Mr. Wickett may never have 
mounted any courser more rampant than the Hampstead 
donkeys of his boyhood, but he thought to please his clients, 
and perhaps impressed *his own imagination, by dressing as 
though his life had been spent on Newmarket Heath and in 
the saddle. “ It won’t do,” pursued Mr. Wickett ; “ it won’t 
wash ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon ; I am afraid” his would-be client 

had said, a little of indignant color mantling her pale cheek ; 
for the tone and bearing of this vain, coarse, little bantam- 
cock of a sporting solicitor seemed to her insufferable. 

“ I told your brother. Sir Pagan, yesterday. Miss Carew,” 
explained the lawyer, “ that I was quite willing to give you a 
chance to put you in the witness -box, as it were, and let you 
tell your own story your way, just to see what sort of a figure 
you would cut in court, perhaps with Sinister, Q. C., to cross- 
examine— or Ferret. Yes ; I should say. Ferret is the best, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


lOI 


when it’s a lady who is on her oath, because he’ll get a laugh 
from the jury, and ” 

“ Excuse me, sir,’ the applicant had said, rising hastily 
from her seat. “ I gather from what you say that you dis- 
believe ” — Her voice trembled with anger, agitation, shame — 
so Mr. Wickett judged, and he did not think well of her. Per- 
haps what he had seen of women did not predispose him to 
think well of them. He shook his head. 

“ My belief, or the contrary, matters very little, madam,” 
he said dryly. “ The question is, what you can get twelve 
good men and true in a box to believe ; and my lord in his 
horsehair to believe ; and then the bigwigs of the Court of 
Appeal, and the rest. My own idea is that the whole affair 
must end in a break-down. It may cost money — say five- 
thousand, more likely ten — if you stick to it, and the shiners 
are forthcoming ; but the result will be the same anyhow. You 
haven’t the ghost of a chance. If you had, for Sir Pagan’s sake 
I’d have a shy at it; but indeed the oracle won’t work — it won’t 
I assure you.” 

It was but cold comfort that was to be derived from Mr. 
Wickett, whose chamber his visitor left with a swelling heart, 
and the awkward conviction that she had been coarsely told 
that she was, not an impostor merely, but a self-convicted 
cheat. It was not for some days after that interview that she 
could muster courage enough to resume her search for a legal 
champion. Nor, perhaps, would she have done^so then, save 
for Mrs. Tucker the housekeeper and her kindly counsel. As it 
was, she shook off the listlessness that was creeping over her more 
and more ; and in the battered brougham that was now entirely 
set aside for her use, repaired to Mr. Sterling’s chambers in 
Chancery Lane. 

Mr. Sterling was not at all, corporeally speaking, what the 
applicant had expected to find. The housekeeper had de- 
scribed him as a'Yorkshireman ; and that is a word which to 
southern ears usually conjures up the image of a hale, burly, well- 
grown individual. Whereas, Mr. Sterling was a little, hatchet- 
faced man, with thin cheeks, a parchment complexion, and a 
dull dead eye — perhaps the most disappointing lawyer to look 
at that ever a client smarting under wrongs encountered. 

Sir Pagan’s sister told her story. She did not tell it well. 
She was angry with herself, and vexed with herself, because 
she told it so ill. It had been a lame tale, lamely told ; and 
so she felt. Whether her statement were false or true, matters 
nothing as to her niode of making it. She bore up ill against 


102 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


misfortune, howsoever deserved, and the weeks spent beneath 
her brother’s roof, and perforce without female companionship, 
had had their effect upon her nerves. The Carew girls, in 
Devonshire, had always borne the reputation of having the 
tempers of angels. They had been two bright gentle young 
things, welcomed as summer sunshine at the thresholds of 
damp cottages and moorland farms. Now, she who dwelt in 
her brother’s house in Bruton Street had grown silent and sad, 
and the blue eyes were wont to look sometimes as though they 
could flash on occasions. She seemed less beautiful, because 
less animated than usual, as she told her tale to this dull liltle 
lawyer. 

Presently, the dead dim eye that had damped the hopes of 
many a sanguine client began to brighten. A little color came 
into the parchment cheeks. The whole face assumed a look of 
virile strength and intelligence that transformed it ; just as 
when, over a leaden-colored sea, the sun breaks gloriously 
through envious clouds, and every tiny wavelet sparkles in the 
broad gold path that is flung across the deep. 

“ I think, now, that I begin to see it,” he said, more to 
himself than to his visitor ; and then, much to the surprise of the 
latter, the light died out of his eyes, the flush faded from his 
face, and he became more thoughtful than before, and seemed 
really to forget that he was not alone in the room. The girl 
watched him anxiously, with a beating heart ; but as his reve- 
rie continued, she could not help thinking that he was, in spite 
of excellent Mrs. Tucker’s commendations, a very unsatisfactory 
sort of adviser. The other attorneys, though they would not 
befriend her, did at least impress her. Even their offices, in- 
cluding that flashy mill wherein Mr. Wickett of sporting cele- 
brity ground his clients’ bones to make his bread, had seemed 
more imposing than did the room in which Mr. Sterling sat 
among his books. 

Meanwhile the lawyer, after his period of meditation, lifted 
up his thoughtful face and confronted his client. “ I must ask 
you, if you please, kindly to make indulgence for me,” said Mr. 
Sterling, in a subdued but steady tone ; “ nor do I know that 
I had ever such a request to address to a client before. Nor, 
in all the course of my professional career, has a case come 
before me as difficult, perplexed, and complicated as that which 
lies before me now. Mrs. Tucker is a worthy woman, and has 
often testified to her loyalty to the ancient race from which 
you spring. I myself am, on the mother’s side, a Devon man, 
and I know how high is yet in Devonshire the name of Carew, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FATE. 


103 

This would of itself predispose me to help you, if I could. And 
I have always helped, to the best of my poor powers, those, who 
were suffering from injustice ; too much of which, through weak- 
ness, credulity, ignorance, on one side, through fraud and vio- 
lence on the other, is yet rampant in the world. — You don’t,” he 
added, sadly shaking his head, “ think much of me.” 

And in truth the claimant of the Leominster coronet had 
not been disposed to think much of Mr. Sterling. We are all 
of us so very much inclined to judge by externals. A big man, 
if he be gifted by nature with average brains and energy and 
tact, has, if he did but know it, a clear start in life, when con- 
trasted with those who are of lesser stature. Unless he be 
transparently a fool, he is credited with sense ; and if not ab- 
surdly weak-kneed, he has at least the reputation of being wilh 
ing and able to fight. But poor Lawyer Sterling was a mean 
looking, feeble, little fellow ; and it was only by a great mental 
effort that a feminine client could dream of him as a knight 
capable of laying lance in rest for her. And yet Mr. Sterling 
had his merits. His pale face could redden, his dim eye could 
glow, as if every pulse that chivalry ever set in motion were 
throbbing in that shrunken body of his — the man seemed en- 
nobled by the feelings that swelled his narrow little chest. I 
doubt if, in the old ordeal of wager of battle, poor little Mr. Stir- 
ling would not have lost his saddle before the spear of the 
veriest knightly scoundrel that ever, after solemn oaths, set 
spurs to his horse to back a lying accusation. But I am sure 
that the brave little man would have done his puny best, like 
wounded Wilfrid of Ivonhoe when facing the fierce Templar 
to save Rebecca from the stake. 

Something, some thought of higher respect for the man 
in spite of his low stature and his pinched face, moved the 
fair client to a hasty response. “ You mistake me, sir. What 
I long for is a friend who can rescue me from this false, cruel, 
position. I have been robbed of all — accused of all — and 
and ' 

“ I understand your meaning, madam,” said Mr. Sterling, 
promptly, but very gently. “ False indeed, and cruel indeed, 
would be your position, if matters are as I am inclined to 
think. You must excuse me, however, if I ask a little time for 
deliberation. Give me time.” 

The girl started. A tell-tale blush suffused her face. Those 
were her own words. It was the very plea which she had 
urged when deferring her acceptance of Madame de Lalouve’s 
proffered aid. 


104 


ONE FALSE, BOTH EA IE. 


Mr. Sterling saw the blush, and misconstrued it. ‘‘ Do not 
mistake my meaning,” he said. This is a very difficult case, 
and the litigation may be ruinous. I am not one of those 
lawyers who tell suitors as many of my brethren very properly 
do, that the victory is to the longest purse. I believe that, in 
spite of the proverbial bandage that Justice wears over those 
bright eyes of hers, the magic scales do incline, somehow, on 
the side where the Truth is. I believe that the glaive of 
Justice falls upon the guilty neck. I do believe, indeed, that 
we are not utterly forsaken, and that there is a God who 
judges the earth. Only give me a little time — it is all I ask 
— for thought and for inquiry into this matter ; and I assure 
you, madam, that you could find no sincerer friend than 
William Sterling.” 

It was with a lighter heart than usual that Sir Pagan’s sister 
went back to her brother’s dreary house in Bruton Street that 
day. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE MEGATHERION. 

It was the noonday — which does not coincide exactly with 
the sun’s meridian according to the accredited hour of the 
Royal Observatory of Greenwich — of early London life, and a 
great many men were lunching in the huge saloons of that 
prosperous institution the Megatherion. Companies with 
limited liability, and the prospectus of each of which must 
, surely be penned by the imaginative goose-quill of some san- 
guine poet, are eternally starting concerns destined to founder, 
and setting up gewgaw speculations that bring profit to none 
but the audacious promoter and the official trustee. But the 
Megatherion paid noble dividends, and flourished like a green 
bay-tree. It met a want, a real want. Clubs, of various sizes 
and varying pretensions, are as numerous now as, in the days 
of Johnson and Boswell — the tavern-haunting days — they were 
scarce. But clubs are too exclusive. They only admit their 
own members, with the rare privilege of a stranger to dine. 
Now, the big, admirably managed Megatherion was neutral 
ground, around the snowy table-cloths of which, or on the soft- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


105 

ly-cushioned divans of which, all men became brothers, and it 
was not necessary to submit to the club bore, or to meet the 
perpetual clique, or to run for ever in a monotonous groove. 

The Megatherion did its best to reproduce some of the best 
features of club-life. It did its best, too, perhaps not quite 
consciously, to galvanize into existence some of the chief merits 
of the old coffee-house life which the French have borrowed 
from us, since it was in London, not Paris, that Pasqua, the 
Fanariote Greek, first brewed his coffee, and that the “ China 
drink — tea,” commemorated by Mr. Samuel Pepys, was first in 
vogue. There was less of yawning and more of conversation 
— so cynics averred — in the free Megatherion than in some of 
those Pall-Mall palaces where old quidnuncs take possession 
of the bay-windows and doze in the easy-chairs, and whence 
young men are reputed to fly to miscalled clubs set up by 
specious adventurers, who dispense with entrance fees and clip 
subscriptions, to recoup themselves by drugged wines and 
overcharged dinners. Now, at the Megatherion, all admitted 
that the wines were good and not dear, and the cooking nearly 
perfect, the viands of the best- quality, the table-equipage fault- 
less, and the waiting good. There are spots in the sun, blem- 
ishes in the purest marble of Paros ; and the young men from 
the Potteries, or Lancashire or Dublin, who came up to London 
to write for Society journals, did grumble that at the Megathe- 
rion the potatoes were too few, the chops not fat enough, and 
so forth ; but there was a fair pennyworth for the penny. 

At the Megatherion, then, many men were gathered together 
at luncheon-tide, as, much later on, a larger assembly would 
congregate at the more sacred dinner-hour. At one of the 
tables was a group of visitors to London, officers from Aider- 
shot, two of them ; the others, some five young men of some 
little means, from country districts ; while the arbiter who ruled 
over them — though by no means the founder of the feast, in 
the sense of being the paymaster, was the only Londoner pur 
sang, the only genuine Cockney, included in the company — was 
no other than Ned Tattle, frdsh from Egypt, more self-import- 
ant than ever, a pert London sparrow among the diffident rustic 
chirpers. Mr. Tattle had, and tried to have, an extensive 
country connection. He did not disdain the little arts by which 
such a connection can be kept up, still less the benefits accru- 
ing from it. An honorary contribution to a local newspaper 
now and then, in the height of the season — Ned had a deft 
way of handling his pen, and was keen as a sleuth-hound on 
the scent of gossip and scandal — and a readiness to play the 


lo6 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

part of cicerone to notables from the manufacturing districts, 
brought him in much provincial renown and some pleasant in- 
vitations during the autumn. Nor did he disdain, as now, to 
dine or lunch expensively with younger and simpler men than 
he, who listened to his bantam crowing. 

At a much smaller table, within earshot of the loud conver- 
sation of Mr. Tattle and his friends, sat two gentlemen, one of 
whom was Arthur Talbot ; while at yet another one, hard by, a 
solitary customer sat at his meal ; a sunburnt man this, of 
seafaring appearance, but wearing the glossiest of broadcloth, 
the sprucest of shirt pins, the neatest of neckties, and, in fact, 
no other than Chinese Jack, of Jane Seymour Street, Strand, 
W.C. At the Megatherion there is no division of classes. It 
is a public place of entertainment, and so, for that matter, are 
certain gorgeous hostelries in Republican Paris, the Maison 
dOr, the Cafe Riche, the Cafe Anglais, Pierre and J’aul may 
come in if they like, in their honest white blouses, besmeared 
by stone-chips and mortar, and may roar for the canon of red 
wine and the bowls of broth, and be legally admissible among 
the starched waiters and the expensive fittings. But, some- 
how, the worthy Auvergnat stonemasons do not care to try Ihe 
experiment. Just so might Mr. Whelks, in corduroy, plunge 
into the Megatherion and order whatever he liked and could 
pay for ; but he very sensibly confines his custom to establish- 
ments where he can feel himself at ease. Chinese Jack, at 
the Megatherion, labored under no hereditary or educational 
disadvantage. He sat still, and looked like a merchant skip- 
per, and was as sunbrowmed as an Australian from the Plains, 
and behaved very quietly and like a gentleman, seeming to 
listen to nothing, but hearing all, as if he had been the Ear of 
Dionysius. 

To be a good listener is of itself an art — not with a social 
bias, not to be such a listener as, was the high-born but mysteri- 
ous Lovel, when he fascinated the garrulous Mr. Jonathan Old- 
buck in the postchaise journey from the Forth ferry to Aber- 
deen. That sort of listener acts a part, a secondary one, it is 
true, but still a part that admits of a good deal of quiet byplay 
and neat stage-business. But to keep one’s ears open, as did 
Chinese Jack, to assume the ungrateful character of an eaves- 
dropper without personal motive — this demands a great deal 
from a man too sensible to be imbued with a mere vulgar 
spirit of inquisitiveness. The lodger at Mrs. Budger’s private 
hotel in Jane Seymour Street was possessed of an unwearying 
patience, and could endure without wincing the stream of 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


107 

platitudes, the feeble jests, the tedious repetitions, the count- 
less “ said hes ” and “ said shes,’^ and the inexplicable refer- 
ences to unknown circumstances, that poured upon his auricu- 
lar nerves. “ Have I not,” he would say to himself grimly, 
“ rocked the cradle for hours, and washed and washed, content 
if there were but a few shiny spangles at the bottom of all that 
turbid clay and iron-rust and shale ! So it is with the patter of 
these fools.” 

The particular fool to whose words Chinese Jack paid the 
most attention was little voluble Ned Tattle. On the home- 
ward voyage of the good steamship Cyprus, he had had occasion 
enough to take the measure of that Cockney chatterer ; where- 
as Mr. Tattle could have reported nothing as to the assistant- 
boatswain of the Lascars — “ One of those native fellows, don’t 
you know ! ” which boatswain nevertheless had been born 
within sight of the Norman towers of Castel Vawr. The little 
man was bragging in his usual style, and presently he men- 
tioned a name that made Chinese Jack prick up his ears. 

“ That pretty Lady Leominster — the Marchioness, you 
know that I saw so much of in Egypt, where poor young Leo- 
minster died,” explained Tattle, who did not like to cast his titular 
pearls before swine, and who had shrewd suspicions that his 
youthful friends, ill grounded in Debrett, might mistake her 
ladyship for a mere knight’s wife, if he did not take the 
trouble to make them cognizant of the sacred strawberry leaves. 
As it was, they were all attention. 

“Poor young thing ! ” resumed Tattle, emptying his glass 
and refilling it. “ I saw a good deal of her out in Egypt, where 
we were . so intimate ; and, indeed, poor Leominister con- 
sulted me more than once about his will. He had made her 
splendid settlements — the town-house, the Welsh border castle, 
the very finest place,” pursued the speaker critically, “in all 
the west, and good pheasant covers — pleasant neighborhood ; 
and then there was his will. But he wanted to add a codicil, 
to make it all sure about the personalty — a large sum in consols 
— and it was about that, having no lawyer at hand, that he 
asked my advice.” 

The young man from the country and the subalterns of 
marching regiments eyed their London acquaintance with in- 
creased respect, as the confidant of a Marquis. 

“ It was all right,” went on Mr. Tattle, cheerfully, “ and so 
I saw in a jiffy ; but Leominster being ill and shaky, was 
anxious, and I was glad to set his mind at rest. Poor fellow ! 
he died there, and was brought back in his own yacht, to be 


io8 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


buried. And the young Marchioness and her sister — a brace 
of beauties, I can tell you — came to Southampton with me. A 
nice mess they have made of it, since ” 

“ A nice mess ! Why, hang it all, I thought you said there 
was money in heaps ! ” ejaculated one of the Aldershot officers, 
who, poor lad, was pinched for cash himself, and he had backed 
the wrong horse for more money than he could afford, last 
Derby-day, and had ever since that fatal race been compelled 
to propitiate tyrannical tailors and wheedle unpaid keepers of 
livery-stables. 

“ So there is money in heaps — sixty thousand a year in 
land, besides the funded property and foreign securities, as I 
happen to know,” returned the undaunted Ned, slightly exag- 
gerating the Castel Vawr rent-roll in the desire to set the 
fancy picture of his own painting in a becoming golden frame. 
“ The question is, who is to have it ? There can’t be two 

ladies paramount, you know ” 

Why surely,” said a stout young manufacture, setting 
down his knife and fork — “ why. Tattle, you don’t mean to 
say ” 

“ I do mean ; and the long and short of it comes to this,” 
interrupted the Cockney oracle in his turn ; and in his glib, 
saucy way, he proceeded to pour into the greedy ears of his 
auditory a garbled but tolerably coherent account of the dispute 
between the sisters as to precedence and identity, garnished by 
many picturesque touches as to “ how mad Sir Pagan was 
when he heard of it ” — “ how Lady Barbara, the old cat of 
quality,” had been ridiculous in her excitement — and how the 
family lawyers were vainly trying to patch up the quarrel by 
offers of enormous pecuniary compensation, to avoid the dis- 
grace of a public trial and newspaper disclosures. 

Chinese Jack had noted the effect of these speeches and of 
the comments — more or less foolish and flippant — which they 
provoked, on Arthur Talbot, whom he perfectly well remem- 
bered as a chief-cabin passenger on board the Cyprus. He 
had seen the young man’s color change, and an angry light 
come into his eyes, and had marked the effort that he made to 
keep calm, and to repress the rising indignation which we all 
feel when we chance to hear a dear name bandied to and fro 
on the coarse and careless lips of strangers. 

“ Sweet upon one of them — but wffiich, I wonder ” was 
the sneering comment of the sun-bronzed spy. “ I have seen 
him, if I mistake not, talking to both, on the moonlit deck. It 
needs all his philosophy to prevent him from wringing yonder 


Ohm FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


109 

absurd little creature’s neck ; and I for one, don’t think the 
worse of him for the impulse.” 

The conjecture was perfectly accurate. Talbot did feel a 
longing to put a padlock on Mr. Tattle’s boastful tongue, by 
any means available ; but it was one of those cases in which it 
is necessary to bear pain, as the Spartan boy endured the 
gnawing of the fox. No good could come from a squabble in 
a public place with a blatant little braggart such as his late 
fellow-traveller. He tried to shut his ears, then, to the little 
Cockney’s chatter, and could only marvel at the man’s impu- 
dence in representing himself as a friend and a confidential 
adviser of the Leominster party ; whereas, to the best of 
Arthur’s recollection, there had never been the most casual 
acquaintance between the late Marquis and th& pert grandson 
of the Poultry fishmonger. There is no smoke, however, with- 
out some spark of fire ; and in honest truth, Mr. Tattle and 
the late lord had spoken together twice — once when, at Karnak, 
Tom had proffered the loan of his field-glass ; and once at the 
First Cataract, when he had borrowed a red-bound guide-book 
from the Marquis. Lord Leominster had been the gentlest 
and the simplest of men, and never snubbed an intruder ; but 
as for confidence and counsel, there had been none on either 
side. 

Arthur Talbot, then, sat still, and tried to overhear as little 
as he could of the unwelcome babble of his noisy neighbors, 
desecration though it seemed to him to hear her name — hers — 
tossed in this manner to and fro from the tongues of the disre- 
spectful. But Chinese Jack, his own sunburnt countenance as 
impassive as a mask, drank in all he could, and believed as 
much, or as little, as commended itself to his powerful brain 
and his trained intellect. Presently he, too, almost winced, as 
he heard a name familiar enough to him. 

“ It was all — I’m sure of that — that Madame de Lalouve, a 
foreign Countess — you know the sort of people that go travel- 
ling about with titles, the half-French, half-Polish woman we 
called the Sphinx, at Cairo ; and a very queer bird she was — 
very thick with Kourbash Pasha and all the Palace clique, and 
gave herself absurd airs. Somebody said she’d been a milliner 
on the Boulevards in Paris; and somebody else that her hus- 
band had been a Russian Secretary of Embassy, sent to Siberia 
for something rascally. Anyhow, I am certain she was the 
wire-puller in the whole affair. Miss Carew’s only a puppet in 
her hands,” summed up Ned Tattle, in a final effort to revive 
the flagging attention of his audience, 


iio 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAlE, 


But the young man from the country did not care much, 
perhaps understand much, about foreign Countesses of dubious 
antecedents ; and the conversation soon got into another 
groove, and the Leominster cornet and estates were no longer 
under discussion. Then Chinese Jack summoned the waiter, 
paid his bill, made his unobserved exit from the crowded 
Megatherion, and found himself again upon the free pavement 
outside. 

“ Now to hunt her up,” he said, curtly, within the shadow 
of his bushy beard. “ A needle in a bundle of hay, of course. 
But a magnet can find a needle — sometimes. Let us try.” 


/ 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE GENERAL INQUIRY OFFICE. 

*‘Mr. Dronoaich within? — No. — Then, thank you, I’d 
like to have a word with Mr. Melville. Here’s my card — name 
of Rollingston — Captain Rollingston, from abroad. No new 
name to him, and better known still to your principal ; and so, 
young man, you need not trouble yourself to enunciate any of 
those hackneyed fibs with which you are preparing to stave me 
off. Come, come, my lad ; I may not be a swell customer, but 
I am a paying one, rely on it ; and it’s not wise of you, or likely 
to please your governor, to try to shut the door, morally, in 
this sunburnt face of mine. I’m an old hand, and should be 
free of the place.” 

“ I beg your pardon, I’m sure sir. Won’t you step up ? I’ll 
speak to Mr. Melville directly the lady-client who is with him 
now, comes down,” returned the flurried young clerk, with ab- 
ject civility, as he got his fat pasty face and gorgeous neck- 
scarf and rattling watch-chain out of the way, to let the newly 
arrived customer pass by. 

This General Inquiry Office — the General Inquiry Office, as 
it chose to describe itself in the frequent and pompously worded 
advertisements that kept the world awake to tlie fact of its ex- 
istence — was very well housed indeed, occupying handsome 
premises in a bustling City street. Its promoters — for it was 
a Company, of Limited Liability, of course, but believed to be 
of unlimited resources as to cash and brains, that had founded 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


Ill 


It — had done rightly in pitching their tent within the dominions 
of the Lord Mayor. City men believe in the City. So, for 
that matter, do those who have nothing practically to do with 
that charmed Tom Tiddler’s ground where gold and silver are 
to be picked up. And the Company had done wisely in buy- 
ing up ex-inspector Dronovich, a detective who had been in the 
pay of two or three successive governments, so rumor said, and 
was supposed to know as much about Nihilists as he did about 
the forgers of Russian rouble notes and the negotiators of 
stolen diamonds. Second in command at the office was Silas 
Melville, of New Jersey, U.S., and who had once been Assist- 
ant-superintendent of the Chicago police, and at another time 
instrumental in breaking up the notorious Molly Maguire 
League. These were the high officials of the place. But 
under them were subordinates, British and foreign, who did the 
bulk of the work, of which, unfortunately, there was only too 
constant a supply. It is so in a rich country, and in a compli- 
cated society ; and indeed the spy is now as recognized an in- 
stitution, and drives as lucrative a trade in London, Paris, 
Boston, or New York, as did once the brave medieval Venice 
or Naples. So many people there are with money to spend 
and underhand objects to attain, and so many more who are 
tormented by anxious doubts and fears, that the private in- 
quirer has usually names in plenty on his books. 

In all London there was not a human beehive of this sort 
in w'hich more of golden honey was made than at the General 
Inquiry Office, of which Paul Peter Dronovich was the orna- 
mental head. It had been well advertised, and was well lodged : 
but that was not all. It had really done good work ; and the 
sensational newspaper reports of certain attractive trials had 
done it more good than anything else. So that people with a 
spite against somebody, and jealous Othellos with the Divorce 
Court as their goal, and the very large class of legacy-hunters 
who brood through life over the grievance of being excluded 
from Uncle Buncle’s will, and are sure that there exists a later 
and valid will, most feloniously kept back by hateful Cousin 
George or odious Aunt Jane : and the miscellaneous customers 
who had family or business reasons for desiring to find out 
something which they shrank from mentioning at Scotland 
Yard, came to the office, and helped to swell the dividends of 
Its proprietors. 

The lady client being disposed of and dismissed. Captain 
Rollingston’s card was duly taken into the penetralia where 
the second in command, the American gentleman, transacted 


112 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FALR. 


business. “ If you’ll waik in, Captain, Mr. Melville will see 
you at once,” said the clerk with grave respect ; and the appli- 
cant was ushered into a handsomely furnished room, the only 
occupant of which was a spare active man, with a quantity of 
black hair, unduly long, and tossed hither and thither with- ap- 
parent carelessness, as the locks of a poet might be, but still so 
as to make the most of his high narrow forehead — a man with 
shifty black eyes, restless lips, and almost transparent nostrils 
■ — a man with a black satin waistcoat, redundant jewelry, and 
the air of being a bundle of nerves, without any flesh or muscle 
to speak of. Such was Mr. Melville ; and his voice was very 
peremptory as he said : “ That will do, Gubbins. Send out 
the notes I gave you, each by a messenger, and let no one dis- 
turb me while this gentleman is here.” Then, as the door closed, 
the American’s manner suddenly changed, and he said, almost 
cordially : “ Well, Jack — hardly thought to see you here again, 
mate.” And he held out his hand in Anglo-Saxon style. The 
visitor grasped it willingly enongh. 

“ You thought, Silas, I daresay,” he replied, in a tone so 
peculiar that it was impossible even to a practised ear to de- 
tect whether Ts rings were one of bitter mockery or harmless 
jesi, “ that the rolling stone that gathers no moss had rolled 
off for good and all into limbo. No ; not quite yet, though I 
have shaved it very closely, I can tell you, since last we two 
met. Been as near missing the number of my mess, twice, any- 
how, as ever since first I set out on the grand tour that, with a 
vagabond like me, lasts for ever.” 

“Wouldn’t be Chinese Jack, else,” answered smiling Mr. 
Melville, smiling, that is to say as to his lips, but unsmiling 
with regard to those shifty eyes of his. “ You were thought as 
sure to die in your boots — to go up the flume, as the saying 
was — as any of of our boys at Golden Gulch ; but somehow,” 
he added, with somewhat of genuine admiration in his tone 
and look, “ you seemed to bear a charmed life. Six-shooters 
and bowies did disagree with a good many of our mining ac- 
quaintance, they did ; and ten-rod whisky. Regulators, Red 
Indians, and Road-agents, levied toll on the rest; but you 
seemed to slip out of a scrape as an eel slides through the 
fingers.” 

“ I suppose,” returned the other, half carelessly, “ there 
was a sweet little cherub, as the sailor’s song says, to keep 
watch over the life of poor Jack. — Now to business. You are 
doing pretty well here, eh } ” 

“ Coining money,” responded the American, rubbing his 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


I13 

bony hands together with a chuckle as he spoke. “ It’s a good 
trade and a good time. — Well, Jack, on what footing are we to 
deal Are you to be the paymaster, or are we ? If it is em- 
ployment that you seek, 

“ But I don’t,” interrupted the visitor—^ not at present 
that is.” 

“ So I guessed,” dryly retorted the private inquirer, glancing 
at the glossy cloth of his old friend’s new coat. “ Well, then. 
Jack, or Captain Rollingston, what can we do for you ? It was 
Cook, by the by, that you hailed as, wasn’t it ? at Golden Gulch, 
as a short and easy name, perhaps, suitable to the short mem- 
ories and rough tempers of Californian diggers. But I remem- 
ber the longer patronymic well enough in after years, when we 
were both ” 

“ Drummers to a Philadelphia dry-goods store : and later 
on, bonnets at a Baltimore gambling-house,” chimed in Chinese 
Jack, seeing that the other hesitated to conclude his sentence. 

Yes ; we have followed as many callings as most men, even 
in the States, in our time, I calculate. You didn’t notice me, 
Silas, when I made one of your congregation in that chapel 
you had at Great Oil Springs ; and I am bound to say you 
preached us a capital sermon. And when you drove the mail 
from Troy to SilverCity, Nevada, and ” 

“ Hush ! ” broke in the American, looking anxiously around 
him, as if he were afraid that the revelations of his indiscreet 
visitor might reach other ears than his. “ We had better, like 
sensible men, let bygones be bygones, and stick to the present. 
You, too, old chum, have been other guess- things than you have 
enumerated here ; and I, too, might descant on what I have 
heard concerning you, O man of many names ! But a truce 
to this word fencing. Dog does not eat dog, so the proverb 
says ; and I have heard my Scottish grandsire declare, among 
our New Jersey melon-beds, that hawks would not pike out 
other hawks’ een. If you wanted work, partner, as we were 
once, at Spanish, not Golden Gulch ” 

“ Ay, where I drew you up, hand over hand, by the lasso, 
after the Mexican rowdies had robbed you, and left you to die 
of thirst and hunger at the bottom of the hole. Yes , and 
where Red Eagle, the Apache chief, had his knee well planted 
on your chest — a big strong knee it was — and the scalping- 
knife circling already about that helpless head of yours. You 
were good grit, I own ; and the blood was trickling down from 
the two knife-wounds, beneath the bear-claw collar that the Red 
beggar was so proud of — won as it was from four grizzlies killed 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


114 

in hard fight. I spoilt his fun, didn’t I ? though it cost me a 
tussle, and sharp play with the knife and tomahawk. He was a 
man. Red Eagle was. Do you remember, Silas, that it was 
not until we two were breathless, torn, and bloody, with the 
wrestle and the rolling that never seemed to end, that my wrist 
proved the strongest ? but it was a fight to remember. And 
the Apache behaved like a gentleman, as he was indeed, once 
I’d mastered his tomahawk, in waiting for me to brain him in 
the regular way. Yes ; it was a pretty fight, and I don’t sus- 
pect you were ever nearer to having no hair on your head, my 
friend. — Well, old chum, I don’t expect gratitude. That qual- 
ity is as dead as trust is, according to barkeepers and sus- 
picious landlords. But we may be good friends in a workaday 
sense, may we not ? I have come here because yours is a 
smart shop — I beg pardon — a smart store, for secret intelli- 
gence, and because I want something, and know something of 
yourself and Dronovich. You should work cheap for an old 
mate like me.” 

“ Something due, surely, for that little muss at Spanish 
Gulch,” put in the smiling private inquirer with the unsmiling 
eyes. 

“Nothing so cold as a back-scent, and nothing so thankless, 
as I learned, out with the hounds, as soon as I was big enough 
to stick to the saddle of my pony,” rejoined Chinese Jack. 
“ No, no ; all I meant to ask was a dollar’s worth for my dol- 
lar. You were glad of me, that time, when I came back from 
the diamond Fields at the cape — Cape of Bad Hope it was to 
me — with those yellow pebbles, bought by such work as never 
was done in parching days at Detroit’ Pan, and found the 
sparklers laminated rubbish, all flaws and splits, and scorned 
by every jewel-merchant in Hamburg or Holland — you were 
glad, then, to pack me off to Russia.” 

“ And I’d be glad, now, if you were in such a position, to 
send you foreign. We want a watcher in Paris ; we Want a 
better chap for a roving tour in Italy. As it is, I gather that 
you want us, not we you. Well Jack, once again, what would 
you have of us ? ” And this time Mr. Silas Melville spoke 
rather impatiently. He was used to take the first place, not 
the second, in the many conversations that he daily held ; and 
the cool, tacit assumption of superior strength and daring, pos- 
sibly of superior station, which had always annoyed him in his 
former intercourse with Chinese Jack, even when the two men 
wore red flannel shirts and suits of homespun, and plied the 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


”5 

pick, and washed the gold-dust beneath the burning sun of 
California, vexed his irritable nerves. 

“ It’s a fifty-pound job I want,” said the client slowly ; “ or, 
as your sort of business is expensive, we’ll say a seventy-pound 
job — not more ; and I want, mind, work for my good gold and 
silver. You’d get, of course, five times as much from silly 
swells ; but I can’t afford it. There’s a foreign woman — a lady 
lately come to London, respecting whom I want information.” 

“ Name ?” asked the American, getting down a slim regis- 
ter from a shelf, unclasping it, and dipping his slender pen in 
the great Black Sea of ink contained in the huge silver ink- 
stand before him. 

“ Louise de Lalouve is her name — Countess, she is generally 
called — ^^sometimes merely Madame,” was the answer. 

“ Nationality ? ” asked Mr. Melville, when he had completed 
his first careful entry in the slim book. 

“ Ay, there you puzzle me,” affably returned the customer. 
/ never could make out, quite, and yet I know her pretty well. 
It is hard sometime s to know where people do hail from. 
Don’t you remember, Silas, that when you came to Baltimore, 
people were calling me Hans the Dutchman, and believing 
me to be as thorough a German as the Iron Prince himself. 
— French, you can write down, with a dash of Russian. 
You’ll easily find her — I could find her myself — by asking ques- 
tions of the porters and servants at the foreign embassies. The 
Russian ambassador’s is a sure card. It isn’t in Leicester 
Square you’re to look for her. Likely as not, she’s at Miverfs 
Hotel, or the AlexaJidra. What I want is, less to know where 
she is, though that is necessary too, than to know what she 
does.” 

“ You mean,” asked the American, pausing, pen in hand, 
after he had made some rapid notes in microscopic writing, 
“that you want a sharp watch to be kept upon her proceedings. 
Jack ? ” 

“ Yes ; and for old partnership’s sake, let the watch be as 
real a one as that we used to keep when forty winks at day- 
dawn might have cost us both our scalps. One request more. 
Let the man you set upon that woman be an Englishman, not 
a foreigner. So shy a bird would take the alarm ten times 
quicker if you put a greasy Pole or an almond-eyed Italian to 
hang about her door and dog her through the streets, than if 
you selected a stolid-faced countryman or a pale Londoner. 
Not a Jew, though. Sharp as Isaac’s eyes are. those eagle 
features of his attract too much notice. I can rely on you, 


n6 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

Silas, to pick me out a smart spy with an honest look, if you 
can manage it.” 

“ You shall have — let me see ; yes ; the man I mean will be 
off duty to-morrow — a fellow whose dull-seeming eyes let noth- 
ing pass unobserved, and yet who can loll at street corners, and 
chew his straw and kick his heels, the most vacuous loafer 
there,” promised Mr. Melville. — “Where shall I write you news 
of the results ? Or will you call } ” 

“ I will call but not too often. Time, I know, is money. 
My address is — Budgers’s Hotel, Jane Seymour Street,” replied 
the Captain. “ Ta-ta, Silas.” 

“Good-bye Jack,” responded the American; and so they 
parted. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

FROM POUNCE AND PONTIFEX. 

“ My dear, I shall not stay long away. I dislike leaving 
you here alone ; and besides, these new-fashioned garden-parties 
are not much to my taste, and one meets the oddest people, 
perhaps because is is out of doors. But Celina made a point 

of my coming to her, and so ” 

Now, Celina was Her Grace the Duchess of Snowdon ; and 
Lady Barbara had always highly approved of that handsome 
and frigid young lady while yet in meditation fancy free, and 
always took rather undeserved credit to herself for having been 
instrumental in placing the ducal coronet on her well-shaped 
head. “ Poor dear Snowdon ought to thank me for having 
helped him to such a wife,” was a not unfrequent remark of 
Lady Barbara. There were other match-makers, less disinter- 
ested, who possibly owed a grudge to Lady Barbara for what 
she had done towards hooking for her young friend the biggest 
matrimonial prize of the season ; but ajt any rate the Duke, 
who was plump and short, and sometimes mistaken, by strangers 
who came to see his model farm and pedigree cattle, for his 
own bailiff, so naturally did gaiters and velveteen suit him, had 
secured a bride fit to do honor to his high degree and ample 
means. 

I shall not be dull in the least ; I don’t mind it at all, 


OME FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


117 

dear Lady Barbara,” the young mistress of Leominster House 
had replied, gently ; and then she had been left to her solitude 
in that vast mausoleum of a mansion that was now her home. 
Of course Lady Leominster had been invited. She was always 
invited. Cards and notes, so to speak, rained ^ her door ; but 
it was impossible that she should, at this comparatively early 
stage of her widowhood, mix in general society. She stayed^ 
then, at home ; while Lady Barbara sallied forth to Willow 
Reach, as the Duke’s pretty Thames-side villa bore name, 
where very august personages were expected to gild the assembly 
by their presence. 

“ I shall not be dull ; see, I have the Laureate’s new poem, 
only just begun,” the young lady had said, as she took the book 
in her hand, just before the aunt of the late Marquis set forth 
on her festal errand. But hours had elapsed, and Lady Barbara 
had been absent for a long time, and the Summer sun was 
drooping in the sky, and very, very few lines of the poetry had 
been perused by the fair young creature in black, whose mourn- 
ing garb and utter loneliness seemed almost touching, when con- 
trasted with the pomp and state and grandeur that environed 
her. She took the book again and again in her white hand 
and glanced at its pages ; but her mind strayed far away — so 
it seemed — from the lines before her, and she laid down the 
volume with a sigh and remained lost in thought. 

“ A person from Pounce and Pontifex, my lady, with 
business papers of importance. Would your ladyship please 
to see him ? ” 

The lady lifted her book again, and it was almost peevishly 
that she made answer : “ Certainly not. I am occupied. I do 
not wish to be disturbed.” 

The man in sable retired with oriental obedience ; but 
before he had traversed the wide expanse of Brussels carpet 
that intervened between him and the door, the lady seemed to 
change her mind, “^top, Peters,” she said, languidly. “I 
will see this person, since my lawyers have sent him.” 

The clerk of Messrs. Pounce and Pontifex was ushered in. 
In some respects the man did look the very type of clerkhood. 
He wore the neatest garments, tight-fighting, neither new nor 
old, of black or “ subfuse ” hue, as our old Oxford Latin statutes 
used to phrase it ; and his shirt-collar was very white, and his 
pale cravat tight and trim. He carried under one arm some 
bundles of papers and parchments, tightly tied with red tape, 
and in one hand, barrister-like, he bore a blue bag. 

The young lady looked up with but a dulled curiosity as the 


OME FALSE, BOTH PAIR. 


iiS 

man made his bow. She had expected to see a quiet, unobtrusive 
person of the male sex, anxious to do his errand and to take 
his leave. To her surprise, the languid glance of her soft blue 
eyes was met by the steady stare of wicked eyes, as bright, ay, 
brighter than h«r own, eyes full of fire and full of malice, half- 
threatening, half-mocking. Never, surely, did family solicitors 
of such high standing as the immemorial firm of Pounce and 
Pontifex send, to such a client, such a clerk. He had not im- 
pressed the servants unfavorably. But then his bearing had 
been firm and staid, and his looks downcast. Now, there was 
a change in the man’s manner, and he had somewhat of the air 
of a reckless buccaneer of earlier days, treading his schooner’s 
deck, in silken scarf, and with gold and silver and pistols 
ostentatiously displayed about his person. So startled was the 
lady that, in sincere alarm, she rose from her seat and moved 
towards the bell. The singular emissary of Pounce and Pon- 
tifex barred her way. 

“ No, no, my lady Marchioness,” he said, in that strange 
voice that belonged to Chinese Jack, and which provoked or 
perplexed those who heard it ; “ you must not ring the bell — at 
least, not now. Sit down again, I beg, and let us attend to 
business. Come ; we have no time to lose. Lady Barbara 
may come back. I lost hours, in getting myself fit to act the 
character, when once I saw that the coast was clear.” 

Scared and amazed, the young mistress of Leominster 
House shrank back from the audacious eyes and dauntless 
front of this extraordinary intruder. She hesitated a moment, 
and then meekly resumed her seat. What, indeed, was she to 
do ? She could not reach the bell. To call aloud was useless, 
in that vast catacomb of a house, where all ordinary sounds 
were deadened by space. Besides, was there anything to 
justify a shriek for aid .? The man was not rude, only odd and 
peremptory. Pounce and Pontifex had certainly made choice 
of an eccentric envoy ; but there he was.. One thing puzzled 
her. Where had she seen those bold eyes before ? She had 
no recollection of the man, with his close-cut hair and bushy 
beard and face seamed by countless lines, save of those daring 
defiant eyes, with their look of rough admiration and keen 
scrutiny, odious both. 

“ And now to business,” said this phenomenal clerk. 

“ Will you not ” said she, whom he addressed, as she 

timidly motioned towards a chair. 

The man took the seat readily enough. “ Your husband’s 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


119 

father, my lady, has done me the honor to ask me to be seated 
at Castel Vawr often enough,” he said, dryly. 

“ You know Castel Vawr, then ? ” faltered out the bewildered 
girl. 

“Better than your ladyship does. I know most things; 
and what I don’t know, I have a knack of finding out,” was the 
man’s cool answer. “ So now, as I said, to business. We may 
as well hoist true colors at the masthead — excuse a sailor’s 
simile — at once. I don’t come from Pounce and Pontifex in the 
least — not I. Never was a quill-driver. This rubbish, these 
stage properties,” he added — glancing at the red-taped packets 
and the blue bag that lay beside him on the floor, contempt- 
uously — “ I bought at a law-stationer’s in Cursitor Street. The 
make-up wasn’t bad, though,” he added boastfully. 

“ Not from Pounce and Pontifex ! Then, sir, I must insist ” 

said the lady, as she half-rose ; but somehow she was 

cowed by the burning eyes that met hers. 

“ Insist that I should go — ring, and have the intruder turned 
out ! ” said the man laughingly. “No, Lady Leominster; that 
won’t do with one who has looked Death, in his ugliest shape, 
in the face for thirty years, and who is used to frowns from 
more potent persons than even a Marchioness. No ; nor am I 
a thief,” he added, rapidly, as he noted the expression of her 
face. “ Not a bit of that. I am no robber ; I am no clerk ; I 
am simply an unaccredited plenipotentiary, and come on my 
own account, not on that of those venerable compilers of bills 
of costs. Pounce and Pontifex.” 

Next to his sneering tone, the most remarkable feature in 
the conversation of Chinese Jack certainly was, that at one time 
the man seemed to be a perfect gentleman, and a moment later, 
the dissolute, reckless adventurer. She could but eye him with 
timid wonder as he went on. 

“ I know 1 waste time, and how precious the minutes may 
be,” he said, with an evident enjoyment of the situation and of 
the fact that he was master of it. “Yet I do waste them. You 
and I, my lady, must be friends or foes. I know too much to 
be neglected.” 

“ I — I do not understand — you come from Castel Vawr,” 
stammered the lady. 

“ From an older land than even the Welsh Marches — from 
Alexandria — from Egypt. I saw a good deal, and heard a good 
deal, and picked up a few trifling secrets too, when you and I 
came home together by the good ship Cyprus, my lady.” 

“ Secrets — the Cyprus — in what way, pray, can secrets con- 


T 20 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FA IE. 


cern me ? ” demanded she haughtily, and with no perceptible 
tremor in her voice. 

Chinese Jack eyed her with a com[X53ure not wholly devoid 
of a hidden sense of amusement, as though she had been a 
child indeed But he was quite grave when he said : “ Not 
directly, of course. My lady marchioness. But — you have a 
sister.” 

“ I have indeed. Can yo i — -is it possible that you have 
been sent to me — by her 1 ” rhe voice in which the question 
was asked was not a steady one. 

Chinese Jack indulged in a little laugh. “Not I my lady,” 
he said, as slowly as if he were weighing every word, “ Although, 
you see, I might have been. You see, my lady, the likeness 
is so very remarkable between you two young things — begging 
pardon for the freedom — that it would not take much to turn 
the tables, to put the other one in your place, and leave your 
ladyship out in the cold. A pity, too ! This is r grand house, and 
the castle, to my fancy, is a finer ; and then the splendid income, 
and the rank, and the power, and the station, and the being 
flattered and courted by high and low. It would never do to 
'lose it all, My Lady. It would be heart-breaking to be out- 
generalled, because the competitor held better cards, or played 
them better. And yet that will happen, be sure of that, if you 
allow me to go over to Miss Cora’s side, and 

“ Hold, sir ! I forbid you to address me thus ! I forbid you 
to drag my dear, unhappy, misled sister’s name into your talk. 

Leave me this instant — or ” She stopped, trembling. She 

had risen to her feet, eager in her passionate indignation. The 
adventurer merely laughed. It was do: a joyous laugh ; the 
quiet, scornful chuckles of a fiend,, rather. That laugh, and 
the expression of the man’s mocking eyes, checked her anger, 
and, with a sob, she sank helplessly back in her chair. 

“Lady Leominster,” said the man, in a changed tone, “I 
only wish to convince you for your own good, that I — J ack 
Nameless, you may call me — can be a most useful friend, or a 
very dangerous enemy. I am not a moral man, of course. I 
am not a model character. Liken me, if you please, to those 
mercenaries of two or three hundred years back, the Condot- 
tieri — the Dugald Dalgetties — who were ever ready to sell their 
swords to the highest bidder. Your purse is the longest, and I 
have come to you the first. But, on the other hand, the Op- 
position would be more liberal as to pledges, which in the event 
of success would doubtless be redeepted. If you despise nie, 


ONE FALSE, BOTE FAIR. 


121 


say the word, and I will go over to the hostile camp ! I have 
power to help and power to harm, I can assure you.” 

“ What do you want — money ? asked the lady wearily. 

“ Of course I do, My Lady. To the best of my poor ex- 
perience, there is nobody who does not want it. But I am not 
extortionate — a mere retaining fee. Five hundred pounds 
would ” 

“ Five hundred pounds ! She could not help repeating 
the words with something like dismay. 

“ Say three, then— or, better, three-fifty ; I have a use for 
the odd money,” said Chinese Jack promptly. “ We will settle, 
then, on our three hundred and fifty pounds. There is a good, 
solid, heavy balance at your Ladyship’s bankers, and if there 
had not been, your Ladyship’s name would have sufficed to 
bring down upon us a shower-bath of gold. Miss Cora would 
be better here,” he added, “ as sister of the Marchioness, than 
as queen of all.” 

“ If you could But what influence could you exert — 

unless she has really sent you here,” faltered out the lady. She 
had risen, and with a tiny key unlocked the prettiest little 
curiosity of a costly cabinet, from which she withdrew a cheque- 
book with trembling hand. 

“ You may guess my influence over her by my influence 
over you. Lady Leominster,” was the cool answer of Chinese 
Jack, whose over-bright eyes, like those of some weird creature 
of romance, seemed to penetrate her very thoughts ; “ and you 
may believe, what is the truth — that it rests with me whether 
you hold your own, with a penitent sister at your side, or 

whether Never mind. My Lady. Tear out the leaf of 

your cheque-book. Dip your pen in that toy inkstand. But, 
on reconsideration, let the cheque be for five hundred, if you 
please. I had forgotten that it is not my silence, but my active 
aid which your interests require ; and help costs money.” 

Very timidly, like a frightened child in presence of a stern 
teacher, she obeyed, and with trembling fingers, held out the 
cheque for the man to take. To her surprise, the man delayed 
to take it. 

“ I am no robber, my young Lady Marchioness, as I men- 
tioned previously,” he said, proudly enough ; nor do I exact 
blackmail from you with a pistol at your head. What I want is 
— payment for my services for my knack of setting things, that 
are wrong, right. Jack Nameless never was a thief. I look On 
it as my retaining fee. I arq an advocate worth- a thumping 
one. But I do not force my advocacy upon you. I could bring 


OATE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


your sister back. I could insure your position ; not, of course, 
on such terms as these ; but, if you please. My Lady, I will 
decline your cheque.” 

“ Take it — but bring my darling back to me,” she said and 
fell sobbing back into her chair and hid her face. 

Chinese Jack picked up the cheque, which he had allowed 
to drop to the floor, carefully satisfied himself that no formality 
had been omitted, and folding up the valuable slip of paper, 
thrust it into his pocket. “ Now, Lady Leominster,” he said, 
hastily, but in a distinct tone, “ I have taken your pay and 
engaged in your service. Nothing for nothing is a favorite 
saying of mine j and a two-edged one it is, for I should feel your 
money burn in my pocket, if I did not work it out, as I will. 
Trust me, I won’t leave my visiting-card, nor write down my 
name in your porter’s hall-book ; and I should scarcely find 
admission here a second time as a clerk of your solicitors. 
But rely on it, you will see more, before long of your very 
humble servant Jack Nameless. I have more tricks than one 
in my bag, as our French friends say.” He picked up the bag 
and the red-taped papers from the floor, and was gone so 
speedily and silently, that it was as if a shadow had flitted 
through the vast length of the stately room. Chinese Jack 
needed no guide to conduct him through the spacious halls and 
branching passages of the huge mansion. Either he had known 
the place of old, or his instinct for locality was quick and un- 
erring, for he had nearly gained the outer entrance, wEen there 
was. a deep roll of wheels, and then a bustle and stir ; and 
Lady Barbara, fresh from her garden-party at the ducal villa, 
came in. With perfect respect, the man stepped back and 
stood aside to let the dignified spinster pass him by, bowing 
slightly as he did so. He played his assumed character very 
well, his law-papers under his arm, his bag tightly held in a 
black-gloved hand, a certain stiff humility in his salute. But a 
very close observer might have noticed that beseemed a down- 
looking man, and avoided, perhaps from shyness, meeting Lady 
Barbara’s eye. She looked at him inquisitively as she ac- 
knowledged the movement of his head, and then passed on. 
Thirty seconds more and Chinese Jack was in the courtyard, 
through the side-gate, and gone. 

My dear, I liave been thinking of you, and fearing you, 
felt dull all through this tiresome party. Certainly, Society is 
not what it wa^. One misses the people one ought to meet, 

and gets jostled by those who -But who was that singular 

looking man with the beard and the papers that I met as I 


ONE FALSE, BO TIL FAIR. 


123 


came In ? ” asked Lady Barbara, presently. “ Did you receive 
him?’^ ^ 

“ I did. He gained admission, I am sorry to say, on false 
pretences, as a clerk of Pounce and Pontifex, with papers to be 
signed, and, 

“ The wretch ! What was he, then — a thief ? ” exclaimed 
Lady Barbara, aghast, and looking around her, as if to be sure 
that the Claudes and Hobbimas and Rembrandts on the walls 
were yet in their gilded frames. 

“ No — not that, dear Lady Barbara,” sobbed out the girl ; 
“ though he did distress and frighten me, talking as he did in 
hints about my darling Cora, my poor misguided sister, that I 
love so dearly, and would give so much, all I have, to win back 
to me. And I dread scandal so, and fear that disgrace should 
rest on the proud name of the great farriily — yours. Lady Bar- 
bara, and mine now, into which my husband brought me. So 
I was alarmed, and — and gave him money.” 

“ The knave, the wretch S Some begging letter-writer, on 
the watch to extort a trifle of money from a young creature 
like — The servants are to blame for admitting him,” said 
Lady Barbara wrathfully. 

“ It was my fault ; I consented to receive him,” returned 
the other, timidly “ and he was very fair-spoken, and seemed 
really to have come on business, until he began to talk of Cora, 

and the You are not angry with me, aunt, because I gave 

the man money ? ” She spoke in a sweet childish voice, that 
would have softened a harder heart than that of austere Lady 
Barbara, who came over at once and kissed her tenderly on 
the forehead. 

“ No wonder you are frightened, my love ! I ought to have 
been here to protect you,^’ she said ; ** but I thought in your 
own house you were safe. The audacity of the man ! Did he 
leave any clue, name, or address by which he could be traced ? 
If so, I will put the matter at once into the hands of the police, 
and he will be punished as he deserves,” said the stern old lady, 
who never dreamed that the intruder’s raid into Leominster 
House could have profited him by more than a couple, or say 
three or four sovereigns, and who would have been horrified 
had she known the actual amount of the cheque. 

“ He left no name, no address ; and had he mentioned such, 
I should have forgotten them, I think. It was only my sister’s 
dear name that stirred my heart so/’ was all the reply. 


124 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

ARTHUR TALBOT CALLS ON SIR PAGAN. 

“ A LETTER, my lady.” It was Sir Pagan’s groom-footman, 
in Bruton Street, who said these words, somewhat sheepishly, as 
on a battered and dinted old salver that no plate powder could 
now burnish into the semblance of solid silver, he handed a 
letter to his master’s beautiful young sister. He called her 
“ My lady and this much ol lip-loyalty was now rendered to 
her by every one of the unpaid faithful ones of the baronet’s 
household ; but he did it awkwardly and with a hangdog look. 
It is not given to all of us to be able gracefully to salute a 
dethroned sovereign, or to do decorous homage to a pretender 
in adversity ; and Cora Carew, as her brother still persisted in 
designating her, had none of the prestige of pomp and wealth 
to surround her in that shabby St Germain where she held her 
court. Her brother, it has been mentioned, did not believe in 
her. But neither, let me hasten to say, did he disbelieve in her. 
Casuists telTus that by a resolute effort of a robust will we can 
swallow anything in the shape of dogma, or reject it, at pleasure , 
but Sir Pagan had preferred to let his brain lie fallow, and to 
preserve an attitude of resolute neutrality. He never called her 
“ Cora” to her face, save by some slip of the tongue, and then 
he always begged her pardon in his clumsy way, which often 
brought the tears into her eyes. Had he not been always 
rough, strong, well-meaning brother Pagan, thinking much of 
the otters of Devon rivers and the foxes of Devon tors, of his 
child-sisters so rarely ? And yet he had meant to be kind, and 
meant so still, in his rough way. Sir Pagan Carew would have 
harbored his penniless sister till Doomsday, and dipped his 
mortgaged credit more deeply in the slough of debt, for her 
sake ; but he would not take cognizance of her claim. 

It was but a short note, penned upon scented paper, and 
sealed with a coronet, that James the groom footman had brought, 
on the battered old salver, which yet bore the half-effaced 
imprint of the Carew arms. The note was addressed to Miss 
Carew. Everybody had not followed the example of the loyal 
Devonshire servants, and rallied round the tattered standard of 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR 


125 

her who claimed to be the rightful owner, for her life, of the 
feudal Border castle and the stately London palace. Madame 
de Lalouve undoubtedly had not. Her note ran thus : 

“ My dear young Friend — It will not be very early that 
you get this note, which I send by a commissionaire, as you 
other English call them, these estimable veterans with the 
medals and the pinned-up sleeves. But I know your island 
habits ; it will reach you before you can drive out to your Park 
of Hyde — with its frightful Serpentine, which makes the exile 
sigh, alas ! for the lake in our delicious Wood of Boulogne — or 
elsewhere. Who was this Hyde of yours, this too conceited, 
insular landscape gardener ? ” — went on the Countess, with a 
Frenchwoman’s superb contempt for mere facts and dry history 
— “ and why did he not take pattern from the exquisite concep- 
tions of beauty in that Paris so near ! However, I wander. I 
write now to demand an interview — yes, to demand. You will 
get this — so says your armless slug of a Ganymede with the 
green coat anci, the medals — about two o’clock. Soon after 
three, I shall be with you in Bruton Street. On our interview 
hang my dear child, your fortunes. — Yours, ever and sincerely 
attached, 

Louise de Lalouve.” 

“ Soon after three, I shall be with you.” That was all the 
pith of the Russo-Frenchwoman’s spiteful little letter ; and there 
may have been reasons why Sir Pagan’s sister should not deny 
herself to such a visitor as Countess Louise. At any rate, she 
was utterly cut off from that feminine companionship which is 
to women as vital air. She was miserable in her loneliness. 
Her brother’s respectable friends held aloof. There was old 
Sir Thomas, who was the genius of sober domesticity,and whose 
wife and daughters had rumbled round, in the job-master’s 
hired carriage, to call. But the visit had been one of those 
ambiguous ones in which nobody dreams of a rneeting in the 
flesh, and which ends in cards and complimentary speeches at 
the door. Cold comfort was to be derived from the sight of 
oblong or square pieces of pasteboard inscribed with the names 
of “Sir Thomas Jenks,” “Lady Jenks, the Misses Jenks.” 
Poor Cora was almost flung back upon the society of her dubious 
foreign friend, Madame de Lalouve, and now the cat’s claws 
seemed to peep threateningly from out the velvet of that 
tigerish paw. 

Anxiously Sir Pagan’s sister gave orders that whoever 
called should be admitted, Then she went upstairs with a heavy 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


12t) 

heart, to make such alterations in her dress as she deemed 
necessary. When do women do otherwise ? Mary Queen of Scots, 
with her pet spaniel hidden beneath tho folds of her red dress, 
was very busy, poor thing, before her French mirror in the 
castle of grim Fotheringay, while the bell tolled, and the 
carpenters nailed down the loose edges of black cloth to the 
scaffold of rough wood, and the halberdiers gathered in a knot 
of steel and scarlet round the fatal spot where the headsman 
was feeling the edge of his notched axe, that was to be histori- 
cal soon. 

There came a knock and a ring. Knocks and rings, save 
those of the Postman on his rounds, or the sullen single tap of 
the dunning tradesman’s emissary, were infrequent at Sir 
Pagan’s door. His sister glanced at her watch. It was twenty 
minutes past three. She had no doubt as to whose hand it 
was that had awakened the doleful echoes of the dreary Bruton 
Street house ; and hurrying down to the faded drawing-room, 
she found herself face to face with — Arthur Talbot. Both 
were startled. 

Arthur was the first to recover his composure. “ I’m half 
afraid,” he said, smiling, ‘‘ that you are surprised to see me 
here, and that you were expecting somebody else. I came to 
see your brother. Sir Pagan and I have not met since I dined 
here — you remember — and I felt that I owed him a call. They 
showed me upstairs without warning, and I only hope you are 
not sorry to see me.” 

“ I am very glad. My brother is out,” said the girl timidly; 
and soon they were both seated and doing their best to talk on 
indifferent topics, as if this were a mere average morning call, 
and their two selves mere bored units of London society. 
Yes ; it was very hot, for London at least. Not like 
Egypt. And there was a word as to Sir Pagan and his outdoor 
habits and roving life. And a word as to the open-air aspects 
of the West End, the Park, and Rotten Row, and the crowds 
of well dressed folks on the al fresco chairs, and the dust and 
the watering carts, and other inanities. 

Then, with an effort which would have cost nothing to a 
Frenchman, but was severe to him, Arthur said : “ You cannot 
think how painful, how very painful it has been to me to find 
that this — this estrangement from your sister, has not been 
healed by time, as I had hoped. It is, I am sorry to say, town 
talk now. Already there have been paragraphs, more or less 
veiled, in Society journals referring to the sad dispute between 
you two. Can there be no prospect of a reconciliation, of a 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FA IE, 


127 

settlement of the point at issue, without the publicity, the toil, 
and the cruel anxiety of a lawsuit ! ” 

“ I am afraid not,” answered the girl sadly, but with spirit. 
“ We two sisters are as sundered now as the poles are, in 
interests and in heart. The fight — it was none of my seeking 
— must be fought out now to the bitter end, I fear. You and I, 
Mr. Talbot, have been friends for a long time. I can speak, 
then, freely to you. It has cost me long thought and a hard 
struggle ; but my mind is made up now. There have been 
times,” she added, with a curious little smile and a blush, 
“ when I thought of laying down my arms and surrendering, 
and taking humbly the second place. But that was a craven 
fancy. I mean to fight on now to the death.” As she spoke, 
her color rose, and her very stature seemed more commanding, 
and there was a strange light in her lovely eyes, a strange ring 
in her musical voice, such as might have nerved a host of 
warriors for battle against heavy odds. Never had she looked 
so beautiful. Somehow, Arthur Talbot felt as though her beauty 
and her energy forced conviction upon him, and that he could 
have dared, as her champion, as great peril as ever his knightly 
ancestors had confronted, with lance in rest, and curtle-axe at 
saddle-bow, and with a surging sea of French plumes and 
corselets in front. 

“ I have been passive too long,” went on Sir Pagan’s sister ; 
“ I have endured too long the finger of scorn and the whisper 
of suspicion, and now, I am arming for the fray. She — my 
enemy — ah, how I loved her ! — is better provided for the war 
than I am. She has her armor of gold, and her vantage- 
ground of rank and possession ; and yet, I care not — I fear not 
— it is I that shall conquer.” 

He saw her now in a new character. Always had he 
admired the beauty that was the common property of these 
two sisters, their gentleness, their winning ways ; but now in 
this one there shone out some of the dauntless spirit of the 
ancient race from which she sprang, and she seemed thrice as 
beautiful in her unwonted animation. 

“ I hope so — I trust so,” said the young man, half-uncon- 
sciously, all unaware, too, that the. crimson had mounted to his 
own cheek, and that he, too, was affected by the contagious 
excitement of her manner. 

She looked round; her eyes met his. ‘‘You, then, do not 
think me— false ^ ” she asked. 

“ I would stake my life on your truth, now and ever ! ” he 
answered fervently, as he rose and took her unresisting hand ; 


128 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


and his next word must have been a declaration of his love and 
trust and confidence, when at that moment there was a shuffling 
of feet on the landing place without, and “ Madame de 
Lalouve” was announced by James the ambidexterous. 

The foreign lady had quick eyes, much sharpened by long 
experience, and in spite of Arthur’s effort to appear composed, 
she was able to make a shrewd guess of the stage situation at 
the moment of her entry ; but she sm.iled superior, and holding' 
out her faultlessly gloved hand, said with polite emphasis: “ MyJ 
dear Miss Carew, I pray you pardon my delay. — Monsieur' 
Talbot, to see you is a pleasure, for one so solitary as myself.” 

“ Excuse me. Countess,” said Arthur Talbot, mindful of his 
office of champion, and really feeling as if he longed to do 
battle for her whose bright eyes had convinced him of the 
justice of her claim — “ excuse me, if I venture to set you right. 
It is the Marchioness of Leominster to whom you speak. 
Assuredly it is not Miss Carew.” 

Sir Pagan’s sister uttered a faint exclamation, as of gladness, 
and then her beautiful flushed face grew pale again, as anxiously 
she bent her eyes on the impassive face of Madame de 
Lalouve. The Sphinx, as usual, preserved her inscrutable 
aspect. 

“Monsieur Talbot,” returned the foreign Countess, with a 
sugared smile, but in a cold and measured tone, “ opinion is 
free to us all I have come here to-day prepared to do my 
best, if I can reconcile it to my conscience and my principles, 
to forward the views of this lady, whom you designate as the 
Marquise — Marchioness, quoi! of Leominster. She is my 
friend, my dear young friend ; and it is because of my affec- 
tionate regard for her, that I am willing to give my best assist- 
ance to her cause. But I am not, as you are, enthusiastic and 
young, and cannot, as yet, take so bold a step as to hail her as 
Miladi Leominster.” 

“ And yet that is my name ! ” cried the girl eagerly. 

The foreign Countess smiled, as a hackneyed diplomatist 
might smile when his duty compelled him to listen attentively 
to some other minister of state or ambassador, while reading 
aloud a string of those transparent fibs and monstrous asser- 
tions that are contained in Notes, which leak out into news- 
papers, which are denied, confirmed, and explained away, and 
the ultimate destiny of which is to b^ crystillized in Blue-books, 
Yellow-books, Red-books, and then be laughed at and for- 
gotten. 

‘‘This lady is as surely Lady Leominster as I am Arthur 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


129 

Talbot/* persisted the young man, vexed by the polished in- 
credulity of the Russo-French woman. “You, Madame, who 
are credited with unusual knowledge of the world, should be 
among the first to perceive it.” 

“ It is precisely because I am of the world, worldly, that I 
am so slow to trust appearances,” retorted the Countess, with 
a slight shrug of her shapely shoulders. “ I have come to 
have a private conversation with my charming young friend, 
after which I shall be able to pronounce fearlessly whether I 
can acknowledge her as Marchioness or not.” 

Arthur could but take his leave. There was something in 
the icy, coldly polite manner of the foreign lady of doubtful 
nationality that chilled and repelled him. But she was clever, 
and she knew much of life, and it might be that, for her own 
ends, she would be helpful to her whose avowed partisan he 
now was. As he pressed the beautiful girl’s soft hand at part- 
ing, he murmured, in a voice that reached her ear alone : 
“ Count on me, ever and always.” Then he said more for- 
mally : “ Good-bye, Lady Leominster ; ” bowed to Madame 

de Lalouve, and went from the room and from the house. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

I SHALL WIN. 

As soon as the sound of the closing street-door reached her 
vigilant ears, Madame de Lalouve turned towards her fair 
young hostess. The Sphinx, to which the current gossip of 
modern Anglo-Egyptian society had likened her, could scarcely, 
in mythic flesh and blood, or in its original rock-shape, as when 
the battered idol was fresh from the chisel of some archaic 
sculptor of the Pyramid building days, have presented a more 
perplexing aspect. There was a grand massive comeliness 
about the woman, that matched well with the dignity of bear- 
ing which on occasion she could assume, although not seldom 
her deportment was as frivolous as that of a Paruienne of the 
Second Empire. She seemed thoroughly serious now, for the 
moment. 

“ My young friend,” she said, fixing her steady stony eyes 
on the beautiful face of the girl before her, “ a nous deux, 


Om FALSE, BOTH FATE. 


130 

it is time that we should understand one another, 
is it not ? There is scarcely such a thing as real neutrality, 
you know, in private war, as in public. Those who are 
not with us are generally ready, when opportunity serves, to 
deal us a fly stab, for the benefit of the adversary. When last 
you and I talked together of the grande affaire, you asked for 
time to think. Nothing more reasonable. I acceded. Well, 
ma mia / you have had time to think. The nights and days 
that have elapsed have, I trust, brought counsel, according to 
our proverb. And now I have come for my answer. It is an 
ultimatum — excuse the diplomatic technicality on the part of 
one who was nurtured, so to speak, in a Ministry of Strange 
Affairs, as we other continentals call your F. O. Do you ac- 
cept or reject the alliance of Louise de Lalouve ? ” The final 
question was sternly, almost threateningly asked, and then the 
questioner paused for a reply. 

Sir Pagan’s sister cast down her beautiful eyes, and she 
drew her breath more quickly, and her color went and came. 
It seemed as though there were some struggle going on within 
her heart, as if she had to crush down some innate feeling of 
repugnance or of distrust, before she could assent to the propo- 
sition of her dubious foreign friend. The Countess, on the 
other hand, seemed to read her thoughts, to judge by the slight 
frown and the slight shrug of impatient displeasure. But when 
the girl looked up, there was no trace of ill-humor on the mas- 
sive face of Madame de Lalouve. 

“What choice, madame, in such a position as mine, can I 
have ? ” replied Sir Pagan’s sister. “ Help to me, in my plight, 
is very much what help would be, rendered to a drowning 
wretch at sea. I am very lonely. My twin sister has become 
my bitterest foe. My brother Pagan is good and kind ; but he 
is not the sort of brother to whom a sister, sorely trie‘d, can 
turn in the hour of need. I feel, sometimes, very very much, 
how alone I am in the world.” She bowed her head, with all 
its twisted weight of golden hair, almost to her knees now, and 
sobbed aloud. 

Madame de Lalouve looked scornfully on. Usually a 
woman is quick to comfort a woman whom she does not per- 
sonally hate. There is an emotional freemasonry amongst the 
feminine sex that links heart to heart, somehow, when grief is 
in question and no grudge bars the way. But Countess 
Louise looked on unpitying, magnificent in her contempt. Be 
sure that this handsome, well-preserved hardened woman of the 
world had had her full share of the trouble and the sorrow, the 


om P'ALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


131 

anxiety and the care, that fall to the lot of us all, She must 
have suffered ; but she was one of those who, like the pets of 
the prize-ring, take their punishment well. The Red Indians, 
still more than the Spartans, were, and are, our masters in this 
respect. They yet put their young warriors through a harden- 
ing process, compared to which the fag at Winchester or Har- 
row has a bed of roses to lie on. When hideous pains and 
ghastly wounds, inflicted by kindred and friends, have been 
joyously endured, then is the young Sioux, the Apach^ stripling,* 
though fit to make his way in a world of cruel foes, hunger, 
thirst, and snowstorms, on the disputed prairie. 

Madame de Lalouve had probably in her some of the stern 
spirit which prompts those who have greatly endured to demand 
equal sufferings, stoically borne, on the part of others. At any 
rate, a girl’s tears were to her contemptible. Those of Sir 
Pagan’s sister were at any rate quickly dried. The girl looked 
up, and spoke now courageously enough : I am ready now. 
Countess, to talk to you. I was foolish — I am but young, you 
know — but I am ready now.” 

Quite clear and sweet was the ring of her fresh young voice, 
and quite steady were her blue eyes, which looked dauntlessly 
into those darkling ones of the foreign lady. Many a sad, dull 
hour had Sir Pagan’s almost outlawed sister spent in that 
dreary sanctuary of hers in Bruton Street ; many a pang, keener 
than we can endnre from such causes, but such as w'omen feel 
to the quick, had she suffered, from neglect, solitude, unbelief ; 
and these things had chafed her nerves and wounded her spirit, 
until there were times when she felt as if, like some hurt and 
hunted animal, to crawl into a hole and die there would be a re- 
lief. But it was not for nothing that she had in her veins the 
blood of so many knights, loyal always and true, dying under 
shield, often enough, with helmet laced, in the king’s cause, 
never on the rebel’s scaffold. Some natural pride in her re- 
volted at the Frenchwoman’s affectation of superiority. Let 
her be the marchioness or the impostor, Clare or Cora, she 
was still of the grand Carew race, unequalled in that France 
of which four-fifths of the aristocracy date from a poor two cen- 
turies since, or sail under false colors, or in that semi-bar- 
barous Russia that is Tartar yet. 

“ I am quite willing to talk to you, madam, on the subject 
you have so much at heart,” said Sir Pagan’s sister, coldly. 

“ Have you not the subject at heart, madamoiselle ? Is 
it not your thought by day, your dream by night ? ” quickly re- 
torted the foreign lady. 


132 


ONE FALSE, BOTN FAIR, 


“Certainly, I have been very open with you, and have told you 
madam, what your cleverness would have guessed — that it is 
to me a question of life or death. You are a most accom- 
plished woman of the world, ” went on the girl, earnestly ; 
“ and besides, circumstances have put into your hands, great 
power for evil or for good. You know ” 

“ I know — what I know,” ejaculated the foreigner, in a tone 
and with an arching of the eyebrows, that* Mepbistopheles him- 
self might have envied. 

“ And therefore,” went on the girl, “ you can do much to 
help or hinder, at your choice. Your choice will be determined, 
I feel sure, by whatever you consider the most profitable to 
yourself.” 

“ And I, too, have been thinking,” responded Madame de 
Lalouve, perfectly impervious to the sarcasm conveyed in the 
speech of her young hostess ; “ and I am sure, dear friend, it 
will be best for us two to make terms. So let the high con- 
tracting parties formulate' their stipulations, as we used to say, 
long ago, at Vienna, St. Petersburg, where diplomatists, with 
cordons and stars upon their padded breasts, sipped their cham- 
pagne and whispered- together in a corner, and settled the 
affairs of the nations, with a lady or two in council, quicker 
than fifty of your idiotic Conferences or make-believe Con- 
gresses could ever do. Of course I want something — that is 
so natural. You yourself, ma belle, want so very much.” 

“ What I want is my very own — mine of right,” said the 
girl coldly. 

“ And what I want will be my own — will it not, sweet one 
— by gift of the graceful Marchioness that I shall have been 
the means of setting in her place ? ” retorted the foreigner 
cheerfully. “ Who would deny the right of poor Louise to re- 
ceive a substantial proof of the gratitude of wealthy Clare 1 
You are like Italy, a geographical expression — pardon the 
metaphor — before she got our poor dear Emperor to fight for 
her. But even he did not fight for nothing. I want my Savoy, 
my Nice — the payment for the battles I am to win, love, on 
your behalf. — Don’t open those astonished eyes so large and 
round. I am not about to ask you for Castel Vawr or for Leo- 
minster House. My salary is more easily paid. The Marquis 
left to his widow, by will — I have been to the horrid office, and 
have had it read out to me, in droning official accents, a great 
great sum of money — money in your Funds, your Consols ; no 
horrid acres, but what sells itself everywhere — like bread.” 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


133 

“ He told me that he had done so ; I do not remember the 
amount,” was the sad, reluctant reply. 

“ How betes these Anglaises are ? ” muttered madame his- 
singly, between her strong white teeth. “ Well, well, my love, 
besides foreign securities, there are in your British Consols 
three hundred thousand pounds. Of these, in the event of 
success, I ask, for my poor share, a bare third — one hundred 
thousand ; and for this I am willing that your word should be 
my bond.” 

“ I give you my word, Madame. If I am acknowledged, 
legally and socially, as Marchioness of Leominster, as Wilfred’s 
widow, I will gladly pay you over the sum of one hundred 
thousand pounds,” was the steady answer. 

Through her powder, through her paint, a flush of dark- 
red made itself faintly visible on the face of Madame de La- 
louve. “ It is a bagatelle, a flea-bite, a nothing ; but it is all 
I ask,” she said almost prettily ; and really began, so strong is 
the continental instinct of a bargain, to pity herself because she 
had not asked more, where consent was so facile. 

It was but for a moment that Countess Louise was dazzled 
by the magnitude of the great ransom that she felt almost 
within her greedy grasp. These people who in childhood and 
adolescence hearken to talk of roubles or francs, almost as we 
do of pounds sterling, and who reverence money because it is 
the only idol that holds its place above the wreck and riot of 
revolution and anarchy, are more liable than we are .to be be- 
wildered by a vast total of swollen figures. Two millions and 
a half of francs ! Such a swimming-bladder as that, such a 
life-buoy, would float Louise de Lalouve, born fiancier as she 
was, and as proud of her knowledge of the Bourse as of her 
secret diplomatic information, henceforth above the troubled 
waters. But she had too much of keen sense not to remember 
that the victory had yet to be decided. 

“ All is arranged between us, Miladi,” she said smoothly, 
but not caressingly. “ I am bound to you, and, you may be 
sure, by the most binding of all ties, since my interest is 
wrapped up in yours. It is only a recognized Marchioness of 
Leominster who can sign me my big cheque for the hundred 
thousand pounds.” She lingered a little over the words, lov- 
gly, partly as an amateur might savor the velvet softness of 
comet year claret, and partly as if to assure herself that the 
magnificent bribe was to be adhered to in its completeness. 

But Sir Pagan’s sister said nothing, and the foreign Counters 
read her silence rightly, 


134 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


“ I shall work for you, of that be sure,” she said encourag 
ingly. “ All roads — so the maxim is — lead to Rome ; but I 
know one, in this England of yours, that is the surest to travel 
on, and it is that of Public Opinion. What makes it, who knows ? 
What one hears, what one sees, straws, leaves, blown by the 
idle wind, a whisper here, a paragraph there. I will help you ; 
I have means to be useful. Foreigner as I am, I can set pens 
in motion, and tongues, that shall reach her in her palace of 
pride. Yes, yes ; Louise de Lalouve can be useful. Law rules 
— your courts must judge ; but I know what rings in the ears 
of my Lord Judge as he puts on his superb wig in the robing- 
room, and what weighs with Messieurs of the jury as they get 
so awkwardly into that box of theirs — it is Public Opinion. It 
shall be for you, my love, or I will cut off my right hand.” 

She spoke almost fiercely, with a confidence that had in it 
something arrogant ; for indeed there is no vanity so self- 
sufficing as that of those who pride themselves on a superior 
or exclusive knowledge of the world. Then she took her leave. 
“Adieu — no, rather, au revoir, belle Marquise, dearest Lady 
Leominster,” she said, as she pressed her cold lips on the girl’s 
shrinking cheek, and then, with a formal courtesy withdrew. 

Instantly there came a change over the fair face of Sir 
Pagan’s sister, and a strange light, as if of triumph, glittered in 
her blue eyes. “ Two on my side ! ” she murmured. “ He so 
good and true ; she so wise, with the wicked wisdom of the 
serpent. - Two on my side ! I shall win ! Yes, I shall win ! ” 


^ . CHAPTER XXV. 

'' LORD PUTNRY. 

“ Clare, my dear child, this once, indeed, I can take no 
denial. The season, remember, is drawing to a close, and 
Lady Minim’s party furnishes an occasion not to be lost. If it 
were a mere question of pleasure,” continued Lady Barbara, 
didactically, “ I should be the last to urge you to do what I 
know is, very properly, so uncongenial to your feelings. As it 
is, your sense of the duty which you owe to the name you bear, 
and to the family, must prompt you to make the effort. Your 
presence in Society, and the warm welcome you are certain to 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


135 

receive, my dear, will be the best possible contradiction of the 
unpleasant rumors that are now becoming rife in London. And 
this, though every one worth mentioning,” added Lady Barbara, 
superbly, “ will be there, is still a serious, quiet sort of thing, 
to which you may perfectly well go.” 

“ I thought you told me. Aunt Barbara,” remonstrated the 
girl, “ when first Lady Minim’s card arrived, that it was quite 
a grand party, at which Royalty would certainly be present. 
In any case, I had much rather stay away.” And she glanced 
at her black robe. 

But Lady Barbara’s mind was made up, and her resolute, 
not to say obstinate will overbore the weaker mood of her 
young charge. It was conceded, on the one hand, that the 
latter was to go to Lady Minim’s party ; but, on the other 
hand, that she should wear her black — a plain high dress, 
unrelieved by ornament. 

If I may go in my black gown, since you think it right, 
Aunt Barbara ” — she had got into a custom of calling that 
dignified spinster “ Aunt ” instead of “ Lady,” to the secret 
delight of that aristocratic icicle — “ then I will go to this 
concert of Sir Frederick Minim’s.” 

For although it was called, officially. Lady Minim’s party, 
it was really and truly Sir Frederick’s. And it was most 
certainly a concert. Sir Frederick gave nothing but concerts, 
except oratorios ; and Sir Frederick prided himself on being 
the one amateur of music in broad Britain of whom foreign 
artistes spoke as of a genuine patron, a real judge. They would 
have been strangely unappreciative, or singularly ungrateful, 
had they not recognized the merits of the harmonious baronet. 
The man was music-mad, if ever man was so. Young fellows 
of the Guards’ Club averred that he played himself to sleep 
every night with a Straduarius fiddle of undoubted pedigree. 
But it is a fact that he had music on the brain — that he was 
unflinching in his zeal — that he had taste as well as energy— 
and that his concerts, somehow, were the best in London. He 
was a rich baronet. His father had held high office, and had 
refused a peerage. The son was respected, and even liked, 
by those who thought him mad. A one-idea man is sometimes 
popular. Royal Highnesses made a point of attending the 
concerts which Sir Frederick and his bland wife gave, and 
yawned discreetly, if at all, at the dreary character of the 
programme. 

The Minims lived in a great house on the eastern fringe of 
Kensington, a great house, which had been altered, at much 


ONE FALSE, BOTM FA IE. 


136 

expense, with a special view to music. They wete a childless 
couple. Personally, they were extremely unlike. “ Doesn’t 
know a note. Lady M. She couldn’t tell the King of the 
Cannibal Islands from the Dead March in Saul ; but still she’s 
a capital wife for him, and smiles and smiles as if she 
understood all about it. I understand that his long-haired 
foreign fiddlers are quite afraid of her,” was a common remark 
on the part of irreverent youths. 

Lady Minim was a large, handsome, silent woman, with the 
bust of a Juno. She had not had a penny ; but then Sir 
Frederick had a considerable fortune. She was not conver- 
sational ; not a good household manager ; not brilliant in 
social intercourse ; and yet her health and temper were beyond 
all praise ; and her smiling stupidity made her very dear to her 
active husband, and caused her to be liked and laughed at by 
her own sex. Sir Frederick himself was a little man, in a 
black wig, with beady eyes and beetling brows, strangely busy, 
and preternaturally nimble. “ Jumps like a frog, and scours 
London, in his brougham, like a fashionable physician ; but 
he’s a good sort of man, too — very worthy old fellow, poor Sir 
Frederick Minim ; ” such was the general verdict. 

There are parties and parties. To be a guest at Sir 
Frederick’s huge red-brick Kensington mansion was in itself a 
sort of distinction ; much more so, for instance, than the more 
heterogeneous hospitalities of Mandeville House and Macbeth 
House, palatial abodes as these were. Had it not been for 
this, and for the steady friendship of Royal Highnesses, which 
always does throw a golden aureole around the favored head, 
the wearied children of fashion, tired out by the labors of a 
London season, would not have cared to compete for the 
privilege of hearkening to scientific strains that died off, ever 
and anon, into quasi-silence ; and then throbbed or wailed on, 
feebly, provokingly, some said, like the flickerings of ^n 
expiring candle, until they blazed up into one triumphant crash 
and shower of sonorous fireworks, as it were, and then sobbed 
themselves to sleep — had it not been for the fact that space 
was valuable, and invitations a favor. There is always some- 
thing exciting in pushing at a shut door. 

The deep, heavy roll of the carriages sounded like summer 
thunder among the Alps, in proximity to the red Kensington 
mansion of Sir Frederick Minim, on the evening of the last 
grand concert. Among the last to arrive were Lady Barbara 
Montgomery and her ward. The young mistress of Leominster 
House had adhered strictly to her original resolve, and wore 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


137 


a plain high mourning-dress, without a scrap of lace or the 
sparkle of a gem to set it off. There were Leominster family 
diamonds, and Lady Barbara had been anxious that she who 
now possessed these should wear this or that almost priceless 
heirloom ; but nothing could induce the fair young owner to 
swerve from what she had said, when first persuaded to appear 
at this crowded assembly. “ A plain black gown, as usual, 
dear Aunt Barbara,” had said the youthful heiress of so much 
wealth and splendor ; “ but nothing more.” Yet how beautiful 
she looked, as she made her entry into that great concert- 
room — it was more of a hall than a room ; and how spontan- 
eous was the murmur of unbidden admiration which followed 
her as she went. There was no lack of good looks in that 
distinguished company — quite the reverse. How could it be 
otherwise, in the great marriage market of the world. The 
two or fhree chief belles of the season were there, and many 
sweet competitors, who pressed on the heels of these first 
favorites ; and those young married dames of high degree 
whose photographs and praises are bandied about from hand 
to hand and tongue to tongue, and who have received the 
nickname of professional beauties. But they, too, in all the 
array of their charms, flashing in jewels and fine clothes, 
seemed outshone for the moment by this modest, girlish young 
creature, whose lovely head was crowned by no adornment 
save her golden hair. 

The warm welcome which Lady Barbara had predicted for 
her young charge may not have been more than mere lip- 
service ; but it was, at any rate, a very flattering one. Lady 
Minim came to bestow a handsome share of the sunshiny 
smiles that with her did duty for articulate speech, upon her 
youthful guest. She was, as has been mentioned, a silent, 
buxom woman, who rarely talked to her friends, but who 
beamed upon them with honest eyes and dimpled cheeks and 
very white tiny teeth. “ So very kind of you to come to us,” 
was what she said ; but the timid guest felt grateful to her 
because of her comforting method of saying it. And Sir 
Frederick, all the cares of the concert on his shoulders, fresh 
from a conference with Signor Falderaltit, eager for an 
understanding with Herr Fiddlededee, found time to rush up 
for a moment and make his bow, and whisper a word or two to 
Lady Barbara his old friend, and then plunged off into the 
fray. The Duchess of Snowdon too, and sundry other very 
great ladies, made a point, for Lady Barbara’s sake, of being 
publicly very civil to the young Lady Leominster, concerning 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


138 

whom, and her strange dispute with her sister, such odd tales 
were afloat. Little Ned Tattle, who had, by unheard-of 
intrigue and shameless solicitation, secured a card for the 
party, stood on tiptoe at the back of the crowd, and, as^ he 
noted the countenance which the cream of London Society 
extended to the fair young lady, mentally determined that hers 
was the winning cause. And then there was a hush and a 
settling into places : and then, after a moment of agonized 
expectation on the part of Sir Frederick, as with quivering 
features he watched the baton of the leader of the orchestra, 
the concert began. 

The concert itself it is perhaps needless, and even impos- 
sible, to describe, without resorting to the technical phrases of 
analysis, commendation, or blame, which form the stockin 
trade of the newspaper critics who are set in judgment over 
violins and vocalists. One concert, at least one of Sir 
Frederick’s concerts, is very like another ; but this one was 
pronounced, by enthusiastic long-haired aesthetes of the inner- 
most ring, lily-wearers, sunflower worshippers, to have sur- 
passed its predecessors, especially in the rendering of the 
chromatic chords. And young ladies whose own pianoforte- 
playing had been but dull drudgery for governess and pupil 
alike, and who did not know the difference between rendering 
chromatic chords and dancing on the tight-rope, swelled the 
chorus of applause and of encomium, and with pretty inanity, 
lisped out that dear old Sir Frederick’s music was “ quite 
too — too ; ” just as they would have spoken of a winning 
racehorse at Ascot, or of a bank of azaleas at a flower- 
show. 

Behind a leafy shrub, or so far behind it that its stiff green 
leaves sheltered him from the observation of part of the 
audience, and leaning against the wall, stood Arthur Talbot. 
He had, himself unseen, noted his golden-haired friend’s 
arrival, and the sensation which her beauty created ; and he 
was scarcely able to withdraw his own eyes from that fair, 
innocent young face, on which a shade of sorrow seemed to 
rest, save when at times she spoke in answer to the remarks 
that were addressed to her during the pauses of the music. 
How like, how very much alike, not merely in features and in 
stature, but in expression, those two sisters were ! There was 
scarcely a turn of this young girl’s head, scarcely a movement 
of her lips, that did not remind him of that other one whom 
he knew to be alone and sad in the dingy solitude of Bruton 
Street. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


139 

Presently there came an interval of rest for orchestra and 
singers — an entracte, as the French would have described it — 
and many of those present rose from their seats, and there was 
a general movement and a buzz of conversation. This stir 
brought Arthur face to face with his fair friend, who had till 
then been unaware of his presence. She held out her hand to 
Arthur with all the frankness of their old intimacy in far off 
Egypt. “ I am so pleased to see you, Mr. Talbot,” she said. “ I 
began to think that you had gone back to yoUr home in the 
country, or had forgotten us — forgotten me.” It was a very 
sweet melancholy voice in which she spoke ; and sweet too, 
and almost childlike, was the faint smile on those dainty lips. 
How different from her manner on the day when he had met 
with her in Regent Street, and when he had begun regretfully 
to think that she was being spoiled and hardened by prosperity 
and power. Even the tone of shy reproach in which she spoke 
had in it something flattering to that self-love from which so 
few of us could justly boast to be quite free. 

Lady Barbara, too, chimed cordially in. Why had Mr. 
Talbot forgotten his friends ? He had become a stranger, 
indeed, at Leominster House ; but if he liked to call, she would 
promise to forgive his truancy. Dear old Lady Barbara talked, 
when she wished to please, like a printed book — so her juniors 
declared, and this was her method of being gracious. Then 
Lady Barbara turned to exchange greetings with a contem- 
porary of her own, and Arthur Talbot and the fair bearer of 
the Leominster title talked together for a little time. The young 
man felt strangely embarrassed. He hardly could resist the 
fascination of the lady’s manner, and yet he remembered his 
pledge to her lonely sister, and loyally abstained from prom- 
ising to visit her successful rival. He found this negative 
task the easier because Lady Barbara suddenly intervened, 
saying : “ Clare, love a very old friend of ours ” — it must have 
cost the stately spinster an effort not to say “ our House ” — 
“ asks to be introduced to you — Lord Putney, of whom you 
have so often heard me speak.” 

Now, Lady Barbara had never, to the young lady’s knowl- 
edge, made mention in her presence of Lord Putney’s name ; 
but it was easy to tell by the intonations of her voice that she 
thought very highly of the nobleman who had craved to be 
presented to her youthful charge, and who now made his bow 
with a deft suppleness and old-fashioned courtesy that would 
have done credit to a French petit maitre of the pre-Revolu- 
tionary days. In person. Lord Putney was slight and spare — 


140 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FATE, 


an old beau, of course, but amazingly alert, and astonishingly 
well preserved. There was quite a natural pink color in his 
patrician countenance, a color that owed nothing to art. His 
very white teeth, of which he was a little vain, were all his own 
too ; and though he had the trick of peering into people’s faces 
through a great gold-mounted eyeglass, it was only because 
such an affectation had been in vogue when the Sailor King 
reigned over us. There was nothing artificial about Lord 
Putney except the tint of his somewhat thin hair, which was 
dyed to a beautiful shade of almost golden brown, and of the 
long whiskers that blended with his carefully trained moustache, 
and which were also dyed to the same bright yellowish brown. 
The wrinkles in his face, the lines and the puckers, the tell-tale 
marks, in fact, were not so perceptible with him as with some 
men so very much younger that they might have been his sons. 
But Lord Putney was a wonder in his way. 

This mature nobleman’s age — of course it is of Lord Putney 
that we speak — was patent and notable to all who chose to 
study any one of the gilt-edged volumes, bound in red or 
blue, which tell us the most salient facts concerning our hered- 
itary legislators. But then ours is a time when young men 
quickly grow old, when to be bald at three-and-twenty is not 
remarkable, and when strong emotions and restless minds mar 
the fresh smoothness of a youthful face with a rapidity that 
would have astonished our tougher ancestors. It was very odd 
for a philosophic observer to bear Lord Putney’s natal year in 
mind, and then, with that knowledge ever present in his 
memory, to observe how he moved — how he skipped — how neat 
and slender and upright was his figure — how keen his zest for 
the enjoyment of life. And yet, odder still. Lord Putney 
gloried in being of the old school — “ old school, good school,” 
he would say, and kept a dreadful little gold box in his pocket, 
enamelled at the top, that box, and with a history of its own. 
Imperial Somebody had given it to diplomatic Somebody at 
the Congress of Vienna. And my lord would take it out, and 
tap it significantly, and flourish it and open it, and gracefully 
present the scented snuff within to large-limbed, languid young 
swells of this generation, who recoiled from tobacco in such a 
form as from a snake. 

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Lord Putney was, 
that although what is called a ladies’ man, although, too, what 
is called a marrying man, and ample as were his means, he had 
never been married. He had never even made a proposal of 
marriage. Perhaps his taste was too fastidious. Bachelors 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


141 

are sometimes apt to set up too high a standard for their ideal 
wives. Lord Putney was confidentially reported to have lec- 
tured over his claret, after dinner, on feminine perfection, and 
the difficulty of finding it, with tears in his eyes. His eyes 
were bent on the sombrely-clothed lady of Leominster, now, 
with unmistakable admiration. It was not so much her beauty 
that attracted him as the utter, simple, childlike grace of her 
bearing. 'How much of beauty had he seen in his time ! and 
of simplicity how little ! Lord Putney asked leave to call. He 
had not been back long, he reminded Lady Barbara, in London. 

He had been lingering at his Como Villa, and then away in 
his yacht, or he should have paid his respects at Leominster 
House ere this. He was so old a friend of the family ! Of 
course Lady Barbara bade him, smilingly, welcome as a pros- 
pective visitor. So did Lady Barbara’s companion, to whom 
he probably appeared in the light of a kind, sprightly, old 
gentleman. “ I shall come back presently, at the finish,” said 
Lord Putney as he bowed and withdrew ; and chairs were re- 
sumed, and the fiddles were tuned afresh. And the second half 
of the concert began. 

The second half of the concert was, to all but experts, 
monotonously like the first. Crash and wail, wail and crash, 
with perhaps a little too much of the minor key, and too de- 
pressing an association of ideas, tried the patience of the well- 
bred audience. The longest lane has, of course, a turning or 
a termination, and at least there was an end of Sir Frederic’s 
concert. Then came the compliments from august lips, echoed 
by those who were within the purple of nobility, but not within 
the sacred royal circle ; and the thanks and the leave-takings, 
the cloakings, the scramble for carriages. Lord Putney gave 
the young lady of Leominster House his arm. Sir Frederick 
Minim, with a heated brow, came to steer Lady Barbara through 
the crowd. As they stepped into the splendid Leominster 
carriage, much admired by the London throng of meek out- 
door sightseers, the younger lady started, as she encountered 
the overbright eyes and queer smile of Chinese Jack. Lord 
Putney said a polite word at the carriage-door; then the 
equipage rolled off, “ Is he not charming ? ” asked Lady 
Barbara. The girl by her side was thinking of Chinese Jack, 
not of Lord Putney. She made no reply. 


142 


OISTE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ I REALLY don’t THINK- 1 SHALL MARRY.” 

Of all the many clubs of London, perhaps the Eleusis is the 
most select. It stands, like most of its younger brethren, with- 
in short walking distance of St. James’s palace and Whitehall ; 
but it has no architectural pretensions to boast of. It is a 
very old club. My Lord March, afterwards Duke of Queens- 
bury, and much better known as wicked Old Q., lost and won 
very many guineas there. It is a small club, very hard of ac- 
cess ; and Lord Putney was now the oldest member, and so, 
metaphorically, the Father of it. He was at the Eleusis now, 
on a hot August afternoon, when wretched M. P.’s were asking 
one another whether there would ever be an end of committees 
by day and divisions by night, and when an exacting ministry 
would permit escape to cooler regions. He stood in a small 
bay-window, amongst a group of languid members with news- 
papers in their hand, tapping his gold snuff-box and talking 
about himself, as was his wont. Now to talk of one’s self 
and do it gracefully and well, is an accomplishment ; 
not, of course, if the audience be of the female sex — 
sisters, cousins, aunts, and dear girl-friends of the family. 
Women like to hear a man talk about himself, and brag about his 
merits, and pity his own misfortunes ; just as, on the praries, 
the squaws are all attention when Mad Buffalo bursts out with 
his war song and his tomahawk dance, just before the raid into 
the Pale-face territory. But it is more difficult when the au- 
ditors are men. Lord Putney managed it pretty well. 

“ I really don’t think I shall marry,” said the old beau, for 
the third time that afternoon. Indeed, it was a catchword of 
his, and he was hardly aware how often it sprang to his lips. 
His juniors, who heard it thus repeated, could scarcely preserve 
their gravity ; and indeed the old lord’s favorite phrase, taken 
in combination with the shaking hands and restless limbs and 
twitching features, made the speech almost resemble that of 
some comedian at a music hall. Slender and trim and nimble, 
Lord Putney had remained, at an age which.had relegated most 
of his compeers to a gouty chair or the family vault ; but his 


PALSE, Pom EA IE. 


U3 

nerves were unsteady ; and his experienced valet often eyed 
him sadly and apprehensively, as a dealer would contemplate 
a costly picture from which the paint was peeling off. “I 
don’t believe I shall,” went on his lordship, boastfuuly, as if en- 
deavoring to impress a fact on the incredulous minds of those 
around. “ I am hard to please, you see.” 

“ Oh yes, you will, Putney. I’ve always booked you as a 
marrying man ; and I’m to do a lot in the way of shying rice 
and satin slippers, eating slabs of wedding-cake, and returning 
thanks when the bridesmaids’ health is drunk : you’ll marry, 
never fear,” rejoined young Lord Lapwing, who was barely 
twenty-one. 

I don’t think so myself,” replied the older peer, with per- 
fect gravity. “ It isn’t. Lapwing, as these fellows know, that I 
haven’t been sorely tempted. When I remember the lovely 
creatures, by Jove ! splendid women who have been brought 
out in London society, and whom it only rested with myself to 
convert into Lady Putney ” 

“ Hear, hear ! ” called out, in a bass voice, a big man with 
tawny mustache and sleepy eyes, from his easy chair. 

“ Quite accurate, Seymour ; you ought to remember an in- 
stance or two, only men are so abominably selfish,” went on 
the unabashed dandy. “ Even now, if I were a trifle less 
guarded, less prudent — ah, yes. I’ve been at Leominster 
House almost every day this fortnight past — ever since the Minim 
concert, you know. It’s rather a favor to be asked there of 
course, in the present state of things ; but the ladies do ask me 
— can’t do without me, I believe. It’s not in my nature to deny 
a pretty woman anything but one, and that, of course, don’t 
you guess — is a proposal. Too old a bird to be caught with 
chaff ; hey. Lapwing ? I’ve promised to look in at Leominster 
House to-day, by George ! for a cup of five o’clock tea ; and by 
Jove ! I must be going. See you fellows again, after dinner, 
hey ? — I really don’t think I shall marry, Seymour, you dog ! ” 
added Lord Putney in conclusion, as he smote jocosely on his 
big friend’s shoulder with the white wrinkled palm of his be- 
jewelled hand ; and then, with a valedictory nod, was gone. 

The other members of the group looked at one another and 
laughed, with the lazy good-humor of the true clubman. 

“ Poor Putney ! he was always like that,” remarked one of 
the company. “ Chance for some penniless girl, though ; for 
Putney is a very big fish. Ninety thousand a year, they say, 
from the London property alone. And then there are all the 


144 om FALSE, BOm FAIJ^. 

Hertfordshlfe estates. That young Lady Leominster, rich as 
she is, and pretty as she is, might do worse.” 

“ She, at her time of life — rubbish ! ” said young Lord Lap- 
wing. “ Even old Putney would not be capable of marrying a 
girl young enough to be his grandchild. I chaff him, and he 
likes to be chaffed ; but he’ll no more marry than ” 

“ Good thing for poor Withers, if he don’t,” put in Sir 
Horace Seymour, over the edge of his newspaper. 

The Withers in question was Lord Putney’s cousin, heir-at- 
law, and pet aversion, a hardworked cavalry major, with six 
children and a sickly wife, in cantonments at Secunderabad, 
under the broiling sun of India. And then nothing more was 
said of the peer and his foibles. 

Meanwhile, Lord Putney, with his high-stepping horses 
doing their best to whisk the light brougham along, was con- 
veyed on rapid wheels to Leominster House, and was at once 
ushered into the great sombre drawing-room which was in gen- 
eral use. There were other and yet larger saloons in the Lon- 
don mansion, which Lady Barbara indeed could remember 
blazing with waxlights and peopled with guests, but which for 
years and years had presented a ghostly and funereal appear- 
ance, with their muffled furniture, shrouded mirrors, and swad- 
dled chandeliers. The elderly peer had been a frequent, an 
almost daily visitor at the town palace of the Marquises of 
Leominster since the memorable date of Sir Frederick’s concert ; 
and a welcome one. Lady Barbara, who had a sort of heredi- 
tary esteem for the wearers of the Putney coronet, and who 
had learned long ago to regard the present lord as a then fasci- 
nating young man and leader of fashion, received him with 
cordial courtesy. The young lady herself seemed glad to see 
him, and to hear the gossip which was ever ready on his glib 
tongue, as on that of a fashionable physician. 

On this occasion. Lord Putney found her alone. “ I am so 
sorry,” she said, “ Lady Barbara is not here. I am expecting 
her in half an hour ; but she was obliged to go to a friend. 
Lady — I forget the name, but some one she has known all her 
life, who lives in Mohock Street, I think my aunt called it, and 
is ill. — Let me offer you some tea, Lord Putney. I am sorry 
Lady Barbara is not here.” 

Lord Putney did not seem to partake of her sorrow, for an 
expression of satisfaction, not to say a smirk, hovered about 
the corners of his mouth. He sat there, smiling, and holding 
the delicate cup of eggshell porcelain between his jewelled, 
trembling fingers. He did not care much for its fragrant con- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


145 

tents ; it is a new vagary of our neo-Queen Anne period to be 
enthusiastic about the tea that cost some twenty shillings a 
pound when Pope wrote and Secretary Bolingbroke plotted. 
Some of the golden youth with whom Lord Putney associated — 
he liked, as some mature foplings do, to consort with the young 
— were almost as fond of tea as were their own aunts and sis- 
ters. But Lord Putney could never forget that he had belong- 
ed to a hard-living generation, that had despised tea, and had 
branded it by the opprobrious name of “ cat-lap.” What the 
elderly dandy really relished was curacoa. He believed in the 
virtues of that elixir, and had sipped four glasses of it, since 
luncheon, at the Eleusis Club that very afternoon. He wished 
he had a little more of the cordial now, for his hands shook 
provokingly, and his rings rattled against the teaspoon in the 
flimsy porcelain saucer. 

The conversation did not exactly languish, but it was very 
unequally sustained, the visitor taking, as was his habit, the 
lion’s share. Lord Putney had always piqued himself upon the 
abundance of small-talk at his command, and was prone to 
attribute much of his popularity to his own store of anecdote 
and readiness of repartee. On this occasion, however, he was 
screwing up his courage for a communication much more im- 
portant than any second-hand London story could be, and 
presently he said : “ My dear Lady Leominster, I am not very 
unhappy — glad, rather, by George ! that our good Lady Barbara 
— for whom I have a mons’ous respect, really — is absent for 
the moment. This sounds ill-bred on my part ; but permit me, 
pray, to explain. It is, that I have something to say — to you'^ 

“ To me. Lord Putney ? ” returned the lady, turning her 
candid blue eyes upon the veteran’s face, as if unable to divine 
the reason for his speech, or for the marked emphasis laid upon 
the personal pronoun with which it ended. 

“ Something to say,” pursued Lord Putney, who, once 
launched, went swimmingly on, “which can be breathed to 
your ears alone — something which is very near to my heart, 
and — can you not guess, dear Lady Leominster, dear Clare — 
I may calf you Clare, may I not ^ ” This was very insinuat- 
ingly said, and in a low, hesitating tone, that would have done 
credit to a jeune premier making his timid declaration on the 
stage to a heroine in white satin and jewels. 

The girl looked, as if surprised, at her visitor, and then her 
eyes drooped. “ I have no objection,’ she said sadly, as a 
lonely child might have spoken. “ There are so very, very few 
to call me Clare now. And you. Lord Putney, are a friend.” 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


146 

“ I would be a friend to you, indeed I would,” fervently 
exclaimed the titled dandy. “ I would devote my life to your 
service, if you would but give me the right to protect and cher- 
ish the fairest — dearest O Clare, adorable creature, it is 

more than friendship that I ask and offer ! As your husband, 
I should be the proudest, the happiest ” 

“ Lord Putney ! ” The young lady seemed fairly startled 
now. She grew very pale, and rose from her chair, like a 
frightened fawn from amidst the fern. “ I never dreamed — and 
then, you forget.” Her eyes had lit on the mourning garb she 
wore ; and with a reproachful, tearful glance at her elderly 
suitor, she sank back in the seat from which she had risen. 

“ No ; I do not forget,” replied the old peer, his withered 
heart throbbing with perhaps more of generous emotion than it 
had known for many a year ; and sidling up his chair a little 
nearer, he spoke, and spoke well, waxing almost eloquent as 
he pleaded his own cause. He talked of the grace, the beauty, 
the lonely position, the painful history, of her whom he address- 
ed, described his own affections as irreparably hers, touched 
lightly on the difference of ag6, and summed up by drawing a 
picture of future felicity for both, when every wish of Clare’s 
heart should be anticipated by her loving lord. 

“As my wife,” he added, “you would be shielded from the 
persecution of foes, screened from malignant gossip ; and rely 
on it, dearest, there would soon be an end of this wretched 
family feud, which darkens your young life.” 

With downcast eyes, the fair one listened. Perhaps the 
solitude in which, with all her rank and splendor, she was 
doomed to dwell was brought more forcibly home to her than 
usual by Lord Putney’s discourse. Perhaps, too, she shrank 
from rejecting the proffer of a manly arm, old and feeble as it 
might be, whereon to lean in that rugged path that lay before 
her. There was something ludicrous, of course, about the rich 
old peer ; but then there was no denying his station and his 
fortune, his unblemished name, and his honesty of purpose. 
Gently, and with a sigh, she raised her eyes from the ground. 
“You are very kind, my lord,” she said softly; “and your 
preference does me a great honor ; but — it is too early as yet — 
poor Wilfred’s loss is still so recent — I cannot forget the dear, 

indulgent husband who But I am not ungrateful,” she 

added timidly. 

“ Still, 1 hope I am not to despair ; I trust you will give me 
hope in the future, dearest Clare ! ” cried the old lord, in a 
flutter of delight and anxiety. “ My devotion, my truth, should 


ONE FALSE, BOTJL FA /E. 


147 

plead for me ; and if personally I am not hateful in your eyes, 

why, then I see signs of relenting in your sweet face. 

Don’t sob dear Lady Leominster — dear Clare. One little 
word would make me the happiest dog, ahem ! in all London. 
And that word, when I ask you, after some' brief delay, to be 
my wife, is Yes. Won’t you say it.^ ” 

“Yes!” she at length faltered ; and her elderly accepted 
lover, in the exultation of the moment, dropped gracefully on 
one knee and pressed her hand to his lips. 

“Not a word of this as yet, to any one,” she murmured 
with averted face. 

“ Your will, sweetest, is law to me henceforth,” replied the 
aged suitor ; but just then, there was a sound of steps and 
voices, and it was with some difficulty that Lord Putney strug- 
gled up from his kneeling posture in time to greet Lady Bar- 
bara, who now, all smiles and apologies, made her appearance. 
Then the conversation, with more or less of awkwardness, was 
shifted to the grooves of commonplace topics ; but when Lord 
Putney took his leave, he raised the younger lady’s hand re- 
spectfully to his lips, bowed low over it, with antiquated chiv- 
alry, and then gracefully glided away. To get out of a room 
neatly had been a social art highly valued in that nobleman’s 
youth. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

I MR. STERLING SEES HIS WAY, 

About a fortnight after the titled sister’s social triumph at 
that grand Kensington concert of Sir Frederick Minim’s, 
whereof so many assiduous readers of the Morning Post had 
studied the report, a letter reached the other sister in Bruton 
Street. It was from Mrs. Tucker’s lawyer, and was addressed 
to the Right Hon. the Marchioness of Leominster. The lonely 
girl felt her heart beat quicker as she opened it, for its very 
outside told of help and recognition. Here it is : 

“ Madam— I have felt it due, less to myself than to those who 
are dependent on me, to wait long, and carefully to weigh in my 
mind the circumstances of the case, before giving a positive 
answer to your ladyship’s request that I should become your 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


148 

solicitor, and in that capacity undertake the management of 
the suit which you propose to institute, in re Leominster v. 
Carew, for the vindication of your rights. Had I not come to 
the conviction that the truth is on your side, I should indeed 
be reluctant to commence a struggle in which all the weight of 
wealth, prestige, and position will be thrown into the adverse 
scale. But I have such faith in Justice, that I will, unless my 
messenger, who waits for an answer, brings me word that your 
ladyship has seen fit to change your mind or to intrust your 
affairs to other hands, at once proceed to take such steps as I 
consider necessary, and shall hope before long to call on you 
for fresh instructions, and to communicate such information as 
may come to hand. — In the meantime, I have the honor to 
subscribe myself, your ladyship’s humble servant, 

“William Sterling. 

“ Temple, August i, 18—.” 

It was a dry letter and a quaint, but it was honest withal. 

“ You will please to tell Mr. Sterling that I feel very grate- 
ful to him.” That was the message which the office-lad carried 
back with him from Bruton Street to his employer’s office in 
the Temple. He had had the answer from the lady’s own lips, 
he said. Sir Pagan’s sister had come down to the entrance- 
hall and spoken to him. The message was a simple one, and 
easy to remember : “ Tell Mr. Sterling that I feel very grateful 
to him.” 

“ That means carte blanche iox the present at any rate,” said 
the little lawyer, with a well pleased look, as he concluded the 
brushing of his hat ; and then, picking up the gloves that lay 
beside it, sallied forth, and made the be-st of his way to Scot- 
land Yard. The Assistant Commissioner for whom he asked 
was in his office — so said, with bated breath, the stolid but re- 
spectful constable on duty at the outer limits of the unpreten- 
tious workshop for the repression of crime, the name of which 
strikes terror into many a knave’s heart. Mr. Sterling handed 
his card to the policeman. 

“ Major MTntyre knows me,” he said. “ If not particularly 
busy, say that I shall be glad of a few words with him.” 

Perhaps the Major was not particularly pressed by stress of 
work just then, or, more probably, he had acquired the useful 
habit of getting through it so steadily as to be able to brook an 
occasional interruption, for the solicitor was speedily admitted. 

“ Sit down, Mr. Sterling, pray,” said the Assistant Commis- 
sioner, whose coat, in spite of the sultry heat of the day, was 


OJ\r£ PALS^, BO Tit FA/P. 


tightly buttoned, with military precision, to the throat, and who 
had, in fact, very much the air of an officer in charge of some 
outlying picket, in a peculiarly dangerous position, in front of 
an active enemy. And indeed this fiction, pleasant to the 
mind of an old soldier who had smelt powder in his day, was 
not an unwholesome one ; for where has society more ruthless 
and unsleeping foes than among the criminal classes of a great 
'city like London ; and the Major perhaps knew better than did 
any one beyond the confines of Scotland Yard, how hard it was 
for a blue-coated army of twelve thousand to keep in check the 
roguery, the rascality, and the riot, which lay hid now in dens 
and slums, like a cowed wild beast afraid to spring. 

Mr. Sterling, who indeed seemed no stranger to his official 
host, briefly stated his business. His request was to be allowed 
the services, properly remunerated, of course, of one or two of 
the most astute detectives at present off duty. “ I may as well 
say at once,” he added, that this is no ordinary case, but an 
investigation of the most difficult and delicate nature — very 
important, too, concerning as it does not merely the possession 
of a great property, but also the honor of a noble family, 
and ” 

“ Then don’t tell me anything about it, for mercy’s sake ! ” 
briskly interrupted the Assistant Commissioner, with a wave of 
one gloved finger, in its sheath of stiff buckskin. “ I am sure, 
Mr. Sterling, from what I know of you, that you will make a 
proper use of whatever information you may acquire through 

the help of the police, and Ah, well, there’s Birch, fresh 

from Liverpool, where he collared an absconding cashier with 
his foot just planted on the New York packet’s gangway. 
Wasn’t it Birch — a very good man, stanch as a bloodhound on 
the scent — that I gave you for that insurance-office business 
where the prisoner was trapped, eh ? ” 

Mr. Sterling had a perfect recollection of Inspector Birch 
and of the good service he had done, and said so. 

“And then,” continued the Major, “as two heads are better, 
so they say, than one, and as our beagles do sometimes hunt 
better, or at any rate bring down the game better, when they 

hunt in couples, why, it’s a lucky chance for your client 

You said two detectives, didn’t you ? ” 

Mr. Sterling assented. “No expense,” he added, “would 
be grudged,” and he said it as cheerfully as if there was not 
much prospect that the outlay would come out of his own 
pocket. 

“A lucky chance for your client that Drew is at liberty. 


Om FALSE, both FAIR. 


15^ 


You hardly could do better that engage Sergeant Drew, a smart 
officer, if we have got one in the Force,” said the Major. “ I 
thought of Blake, first ; but he, though a valuable man, is Irish, 
and has the Celtic failing of being too imaginative. Had it 
been an affair of a plate-chest or a jewel-case, Blake would have 
answered your requirements to the full as well as either of the 
officers I recommend ; but this is a fly of another hackle, as we 
old anglers say.” The Major touched a bell as he spoke, and 
a blue-uniformed henchman appeared. “ Inspector Birch and 
Sergeant Drew,” said the Assistant Commissioner, writing the 
names on a slip of paper, with his initials affixed. “ Not here, 
are they ? When they look round at twelve, then, ask them, 
from me, to call at this gentleman’s in the Temple immediately. 
You can leave your address, Mr. Sterling, in the outer office. 


Thanks. Good-bye.” 

So the Assistant Commissioner fell to again at his formal 
work of dockets and reports, and signing of official stamped 
papers ; and Mr. Sterling took his leave, and went back well 
pleased to his office. He had not very long to wait before his 
ears caught, on the uncarpeted staircase, the martial tramp of 
heavily booted feet, and presently there was a sharp peal of 
the bell. 

“ Mr. Birch ! ” announced the clerk, showing in, according 
to orders, the plump, jovial-looking inspector, in plain clothes, 
and with very much the air of a collector of the water-rate, or 
possibly, of the landlord of a public house ; while behind ’him, 
in uniform, stiff, smart, soldierly, looking every inch a police- 
man, appeared the tall figure of Sergeant Drew. 

“ Hope I see you well, Mr. Sterling, sir ? ” said the inspector, 
with the affability of an old acquaintance. 

“ Pray be seated,” said the solicitor, addressing the police- 
men collectively ; and the policemen took the chairs towards 
which he motioned them. Mr. Sterling was very glad to see 
Inspector Birch. He had had occasion, while conducting his 
inquiry for the insurance office of which mention has been 
made, to appreciate the merits of that excellent inspector, 
whose patient industry had baffled every turn and twist of the 
.cruel and cowardly villain, on whose trail, as on that of a beast 
of prey, he had been set, and whom at last he had brought to 
merited punishment. But then worthy Birch had one great 
natural qualification for his difficult calling. He would never, 
under any circumstances, if not uniformed, have been taken for 
a member of the Force. For a grocer’s foreman — Yes. For a 
waiter — Yes. For a plumber — Yes, But for a policeman — 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


151 

No. Now, Sergeant Drew, who wore a medal or two, and had 
probably earned his medals in India, sabre in hand, had very 
much the air of a trooper, and perhaps even more the air of a 
constable. And a spied spy, as Mr. Sterling had wit enough to 
know, is but a very inefficient agent in eliciting the truth. 

Inspector Birch noted the movement of the little lawyer’s 
eyes, and seemed to read his thoughts, for he made haste to 
say : “ My comrade and brother-officer here, the sergeant, didn’t 
take time to get into mufti, Mr. Sterling, sir, after giving 
evidence at Bow Street to obtain a remand. Always wiser for 
a detective to give his evidence in open court in uniform. We 
plain-clothes officers can’t afford to teach the rogues to know 
us in disguise. Look at the sergeant here — wears his blue 
cloth and badge as if it were his own skin ; and yet, sir, I’ve met 
him that floury, with bare arms and nightcap, as a journeyman 
baker, that I didn’t know him till he gave me the wink. 
Embezzlement case, that was. Drove a cart, too, on the 
Embankment, he did, and swore at his horse, and took off his 
beer quite natural, till he' nabbed the chap that did the Hackney 
murder. What games, to be sure ! ” chuckled Inspector 
Birch. 

It is excusable in a detective to chuckle, when he remembers 
how wicked men and artful wiles have been baffled by the 
ingenuity of the trained servants of Law. But Mr. Sterling 
perfectly understood that Inspector Birch’s remiuiscenes had 
been evoked to quiet his, the lawyer’s, doubts as to Sergeant 
Drew’s fitness for a delicate task. He looked at the two men. 
There they were, alert, ready ; not like the poet’s conception 
of bloodhounds straining in the leash — which, by the by, those 
sensible animals never do — but like two grim sleuthhounds in 
human shape, male Eumenides, to be launched, avenging, on 
the track of crime. 

“ Now, gentlemen,”:said little Mr. Sterling, “ I must ask your 
best attention.” And then he went on to tell them, briefly, 
but omitting no detail known to him, the story of the adverse 
sisters, of the rival claim, of the great interests at stake. The 
puny little solicitor warmed to the task of his narration, and his 
voice grew stronger, and his manner more emphatic, as he 
went on. 

The behavior of his auditors was characteristic. Inspector 
Birch, his pencil between his plump finger and thumb, and his 
open memorandum-book on his broad knee, hearkened atten- 
tively, took frequent notes, blinked at intervals, and sometimes 
pursed bis lips until bis moutb resembled that of a fisb, The 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


152 

sergeant listened, impassive, sitting as stiffly as if he had been 
a mere Dutch doll, six feet high, with wooden joints. 

At last Mr. Sterling ceased to speak. “ And now, officers, 
what do you two say to that.^ ” he asked breathlessly. It was 
unreasonable to put the question. As well have demanded, of 
two eminent doctors, an immediate remedy for an obscure and 
dangerous disorder, the diagnosis of which had just been 
empirically stated. 

“ Whew ! ” half whistled the inspector, looking into his hat, 
as though he expected to find an answer to the riddle inside. 

“ Tough job,” was the professional comment of Sergeant 
Drew, knitting his brows, as if there had been a battery to be 
carried, under fire of shot and shell. 

“ I am perfectly well aware,” said the lawyer, “ that this 
investigation is one beset by peculiar difficulties. When you 
and I, inspector, were hunting down that wretch Rafford, and 
Arere seeking, high and low, for the druggists who had sold him 
the fatal medicines, of which he made use to rid himself of the 
life that lay between him and his base greed, we had strong 
suspicion and certain facts to go upon. And when you deal 

with the criminal classes ” Mr. Sterling paused ; and the 

inspector broke briskly in. 

Quite so, Mr. Sterling, sir. Our work’s cut out for us, 
sometimes, easy as a teed ball, as golf-players say up North. 
An Englishman’s house may be his castle, but his public isn’t ; 
and at taproom doors and corners of courts, one can get a word 
with somebody,and stand three-pennyworth of rum,or of beer half 
a pint, that leads to more liquor and more talk, and the witness- 
box, or the dock, bless you ! This, as the sergeant says, is a 
tough job.” And the inspector got up, and drummed a tattoo 
with his muscular finger-tips on the window-glass, as he some- 
times did when he was thoughtful. 

Sergeant Drew listened with perfect gravity for a while to 
the tap, tapping of his brother officer’s fingers on the pane, and 
then said, with startling suddenness : “/ don’t depair — not a 
bit of it. It’s to be fought through, Mr. Birch. Most things 
are.” 

“ I say so too,” returned the inspector, as he left off drum- 
ming and came back to his chair. “ But these cases of disputed 
identity are the worst of all — lead to hard swearing and cross- 
issues, break down the witnesses, bother the jury. Possession, 
so we are aware, Mr. Sterling, is nine points of the law.” 

“ But nobody ever laid down, in the rules of the game, how 
jnany are the other points^’^ cheerily answered the Uttle lawyer. 


ONE- FALSE, BoTiL FAtR. 


153 

“ We are, I know, upon what appears to be the losing side ; 
but money shall not be spared, nor labor spared, to turn the 
tables. Now, officers, if you will lend me your attention, I will 
state, as shortly as I can, what are my own views, and on what 
lines we ought to work. My own notion is briefly this.” And 
then Mr. Sterling propounded his plan, which need not be here 
set down in detail, but the general features of which were that 
they should, for obvious reasons, divide their forces, that one 
detective should repair to the immediate neighbourhood of the 
Carew’s old Devon home, and there lend a greedy ear to gar- 
rulity ; and that the other should do his best in London. “ So, 
if our friend the sergeant be told off — that is, I believe, the 
correct military phrase,” concluded Mr. Sterling — “ for metro- 
politan duty, and you, inspector, explore Carew and the parts 
adjacent, why, perhaps we shall soon have affidavits to back 
the application to a court of justice which I propose to make. 
As it is, we have but one witness ” 

“ Right you are, sir,” responded the inspector. “ Only, if 
you will allow me, Mr. Sterling, to give my opinion, it is my 
brother-officer who ought to go to Devonshire, not I. London 
is my element. But it’s not that. Sergeant Drew is a strapping 
fellow, and set up, and has drawn a sword for Her Majesty in 
foreign parts ; and the very sight of him, as an old soldier, will 
soften the temper and loosen the tongue of many an old woman 
whose son never came back from the Crimea or India. If you 
please, sir. I’ll take the metropolitan half of the job. It looks 
brighter to me, as I think it over.” 

So it was settled, then. A few preliminary arrangements 
were made ; some notes and gold were transferred, for current 
expenses, to the inspector’s keeping. “ No, thank you, sir ; no 
wine. Too early for us, except on duty ; for then, of course, 
we must hob and nob everywhere,” said cheery Inspector 
Birch. — “ Good-moming, Mr. Sterling. I’ll keep you posted 
up, sir, as we work the oracle.” 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


rS4 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WE SHALL UNMASK HER YET. 

“ A GENTLEMAN, plcasc, Captain, who would like to speak a 
word with you, if you are disengaged,” said old Robert, the 
head, and indeed only waiter at Bulgers’ s Hotels ]2ine Seymour 
Street, Strand, as he stood in the doorway of Chinese Jack’s 
private sitting-room, on the first-floor of that delectable hostelry, 
his dingy napkin twisted secundum artem around his dingier 
thumb — “ No, sir ; he didn’t give any name. From abroad, I 
think,” added the waiter, with a cough. 

Sea-captains are held to be a choleric race ; but Mrs 
Budgers’s favorite lodger must either have been very tolerant 
of interruptions, or the visit must not have been entirely an un- 
expected one. “ I’ll come down. Bob,” said the Captain, with 
a nod, as he laid down his pen — he was engaged in writing — 
and the waiter vanished. Instantly a dark cloud of anxiety 
settled on the sunburnt face of Chinese Jack. “ No news, so 
the proverb says, is good news,” he muttered between his teeth 
as he closed and clasped and carefully locked away, in one of 
his new and shining trunks, the slim volume in which he had 
been busily making entries in a fine clear handwriting ; “ and 
if so, I suppose I am as likely to hear of failure as success.” 
However, his hand was quite steady as he brushed his bright 
hat, and opening his door, sauntered slowly downstairs, pausing 
to exchange a civil good-morning with Mrs. Budgers, the land- 
lady, who, with her artificial flowers in her portentous cap, and 
looming large, more than ever resembled a bloated spider lurk- 
ing among the bottles of the darkling bar. On the outer thres- 
hold stood a thin, slight, wiry man, in black. His back was 
turned ; but Chinese Jack was not in the slightest doubt as to 
whom his visitor was. He strolled forward, however, without 
hurrying his pace, and said : “I beg your pardon — they told 
me Ah, Silas, is it you ? ” 

“ Glad to meet you, Rollingston,” answered the other with 
perfect gravity ; and the two men shook hands as simply as 
though they were — what the hangers-on of Budgers’s believed 
them to be — two old acquaintances who had met after aoine 
years. 


OI^E FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


*55 


“ Won^t you come in ? ” said Chinese Jack, hospitably. 

But the stranger, whose American accent had been percep- 
tible to the practised ear of Bob the waiter, declined to come 
in ; and a brief colloquy ended in the pair of lately reunited 
friends strolling slowly off together, down the steep and narrow 
street, towards the black wharf that overlooked the river, 
Chinese Jack puffing at his eternal cigarette as he rambled on. 

The wharf once reached, the adventurer threw off his air of 
languid indifference. “ Come, old partner,” he said, with a 
laugh that rang harshly even on his own ear; “you and I 
learned in California to read the faces of the sportsmen we 
played cards with, didn’t we ? Just now, we’re in the same boat 
as at Golden Gulch. I see, Melville, as plainly as if it were 
printed or painted in eight-inch capitals on yonder board, that 
you have not come empty-handed, in the figurative sense of the 
word. Well, out with it, old mate and old friend. It matters 
more to me than to you. I don’t know whether the London 
fog has dulled my nerves, or what it is, but it is borne home to 
me, sometimes, that this is my last chance in life. I’ve spenl 
money on it — put my pile on, haven’t I ? As we staked it at 
montd once, in Pacific seaboard towns.” 

“ The last time we talked together, and again in your last 
letter to me began the American. 

But Chinese Jack feverishly cut him short. “ Yes, yes; I 
know, I know. I promised five hundred pounds — and I am 
solvent. Come now, man, let us have a settlement at once ! ” 

“ My dear former partner,” answered Silas Melville, with a 
touch of scorn, “ you need be under no apprehension. It is my 
belief that you have made an excellent investment, both of the 
cash you have disbursed, and of the sum which you propose to 
pay. I really think. Jack, that you are doing a good deed, for 
once in a way, and that we shall both of us be instrumental in 
preventing a cruel wrong.” 

“When I polished off that Indian who already counted on 
your scalp to add to the embroidery of his deerskin mocca- 
sins,” roughly retorted Chinese Jack, “you didn’t doubt, then, 
that I was good for something.” 

“You are clear grit. Jack,” placidly rejoined the American; • 
“ but we are among quiet folks now, and far from the prairies. 
Come, Rollingston, I excuse your impatience. You are a man 
used to an active life, and you have been chafing here, and 
seeing your money go, as you thought, in driblets for no pur- 
pose. But the more I study this case, the more it unfolds it- 
self before me, the surer do I feel that we are on the right 


1^5 PalsM, bOTi/ pAik. 

track. The proof of it is, that I have ceased to ask you, ^ 
you know, for the further advances which, according to our 
rules, should have been exacted, and that now I feel convinced 
of success. That young woman in Bruton Street — that other 
sister whom Sir Pagan harbors— is ” 

« Is — what ? ” asked Chinese Jack curtly. 

“ Is the veriest impostor, the most double-dyed dissembler 
that ever cloaked the rapacity of a false nature beneath a fair 
outside,” replied the American, with an earnestness that was 
unusual with him, it would seem ; for his former companion 
half-sneeringly remarked : 

“ You seem quite excited, Silas.” 

I am,” replied the Private Inquirer, whose temper 
remained unruffled by the implied sarcasm ; “ and I will tell 
you why. Jack. Since I have been in this line of life, I have 
come to take an interest in my new profession, quite independ- 
ently of the pounds, shillings, and pence to be earned by the 
exercise of it. And why not ? ” demanded the American, 
warming as he spoke. “ When a sharper was detected, west 
of the Rockies, with cogged dice, or cards up his sleeve, we 
honest miners rejoiced, didn’t we ? But what is the wickedness 
we have known out in the frontier Territories, where every 
wanderer carries his life in his hand, compared with the cool, 
deliberate treachery of a young girl like that ? I tell you, 
Rollingston, that if I were to lose — instead of gaining — by the 
prosecution of this case, I could not take my hands from the 
plough-stilts now. When first you came to me at the office, I 
took your instructions as a mere matter of everyday routine. 
But when you intrusted me, gradually, with more important 
tasks, and it dawned upon me by degrees how exceptional was 
this business, even in our line, where mysteries are rife, I came 
to care for the case for its own sake. I have given it more and 
more of my attention and of my thoughts, as time went on, 
until this Leominster affair has come to be uppermost in my 
mind.” 

“ It signifies a good deal to me,” answered Chinese Jack, 
, tossing away a charred remnant of his cigarette. “ I shall be 
a made man, as they call it, if our side wins. And I grow 
weary of ranging the world, like a winter wolf that is hunted 
from township to township, when hunger drives it in from the 
snowy wilderness to snarl and prowl about the log-hut and the 
corral of the settler. It’s a question with me of comfort and 
peace for my old days,” added the adventurer, with something 
of mournfulness in his flexible voice, that freed it for the 


OAr£ FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


*57 

moment of its mocking tone ; “ and so I’m glad, Silas, that 
you are so confident as you seem.” 

“ That Madame de Lalouve,” said the Private Inquirer 
abruptly, “ you know a trifle more about her, Rollingston, I guess, 
than you ever thought fit to communicate to me.” 

A queer smile curled the listener’s lips. Chinese Jack had 
winced a little at the sudden mention of the Sphinx’s name, 
but so very slightly, that he flattered himself that the start had 
escaped the vigilant eyes of his companion. Very composedly 
he made answer, between the whiffs of a fresh cigarette ; 
“ I told you what I knew, Silas, and what I fancied, too, if you 
remember. A dangerous woman — not pleasant to have for an 
enemy — not safe to have for a friend. All the more formid- 
able in either capacity, because she has been prudent enough 
to keep on speaking terms with Mrs. Grundy, and is not, like 
Chinese Jack and rovers of his sort, quite outlawed and quite 
lost.” 

“ Well,” resumed Melville, tapping, with the ungloved fore- 
finger of one nervous hand, on the tough black top of the weather 
beaten post against which he was leaning, “ what you thought 
fit to tell me. Jack, concerning this former foreign acquaintance 
of yours is, I am bound to say, very amply confirmed by all 
which I have managed to pick up through various channels. 
A dangerous friend, as you say ; and a dangerous adviser. Her 
presence in Bruton Street — and she is there often now — is of 
itself a sign that Never mind what. There certainly is mis- 

chief brewing. I could but watch and wait . but it is not for 
nothing that I have kept my eyes and ears open, old partner. 
We could not from the nature of things, make the first move. 
The only question was, what would be the tactics of the enemy. 
Well, they are bolder, of their kind, than I for one, had ex- 
pected. I hardly thought to find Scotland Yard against us ; but 
so, just at present, it is.” 

“ Umph ! ” muttered Chinese Jack uneasily, and with a side- 
long glance at the Private Inquirer. “ Got your familiar spirits, 
there, too, Silas ? ’’ 

“ I find it necessary to procure intelligence wherever it is. 
to be had,” quietly rejoined the American ; “ and I could tell 
you, if you would care to hear them, the names of the 
detective officers — ^very reliable men, as I have been told — 
whom Miss Carew’s lawyer has engaged for the commencement 
of the compaign.” 

“ Her lawyer ! ” growled out Chinese Jack, irritably 
kicking a pebbly into the water that oozed past the wharf-edge, 


ONE FALSE, BO TIL FAIR. 


158 

“ She has found some pettifogging land-shark, then, to do her 
work for her. He won’t be long, however, before he throws 
his client over, as expenses thicken,” 

“ Mr. Sterling is a very respectable solicitor,” was the cold 
reply of his former associate ; “ and at the outset, he is zealous 
enough in her cause. That he will throw his client over, and 
wash his hands of the whole affair, in which he has so rashly 
engaged, I do not doubt ; but it will be when he finds 
out ” 

“ That the money is lacking, eh ? ” broke in Chinese Jack, 
with his cynical laugh. 

“ Not that, Rollingston,” w'as the reply, seriously spoken, 
of the American investigator of private affairs ; “ though even 
an attorney, like ourselves, must live. Fair words, as we both 
know, Jack, don’t spread the butter thicker on one’s w^affle- 
cakes. But Mr. Sterling — I learned to know something of him 
once, when we were concerned in a complicated affair — is not 
only honest, but capable of self-sacrifice. I really do believe 
the man would spend and be spent, body and bones, cash and 
credit, in what he honestly believed to be a just cause. But, 
quite as certainly, he will withdraw with horror and disgust 
from the side he has adopted, when once he learns, as I can 
teach him, what a poor dupe he has been in the toils of a pair 
of artful Delilahs.” 

“ Delilah, eh ? ” grimly retorted Chinese Jack. “ Well, 
the word might apply tolerably well to one of the ladies in 
question. Her supple hand,” he added, in a tone which, as it 
fell on the fine ear of the American, was eloquent in suppressed 
emotion, “ was just the one to shear a Samson of his strength. 
The other is young, Silas, very young. The best witness one 
can put into a box — so I used to hear old knowing Q.C.s 
declare was a child. And that girl, if ever she comes to 
give evidence in court, will be listened to, because she seems 
so innocent and so like a child.” 

“ Not while there is justice on this earth of ours ! ”- angrily 
retorted the American. “ I came here. Jack, to-day, to set 
your mind at ease, old fellow, if I could. I knew you would 
be fretting, in your forced inaction — ^you who are used to bestir 
yourself by sea and land. It was pure kindness that brought 
me to Budgers’s, not love of lucre, I am sure.” 

“ You are a good fellow, Silas — a good fellow,” said Chinese 
Jack dreamily, but wuth a cordial friendliness in his tone that 
■was rarely heard in his voice ; and I, I suppose, have grown 
to be a cantankerous animal, morbid front evil surroundings, 


ON^, FALSE, BO TIL FA IF. 


159 


and scarcely fit for intercourse. When I play my part,” he 
added, with his strange smile, “ I think I forget myself, and 
play it well. When I was Ali Hassan, not so long ago, and 
for twenty months before, not a cut-throat kidnapper of my 
Arab crew suspected that the turbaned believer who led them 
in their slave-trading runs across Red Sea and Persian Gulf, 
the dhow ballasted with negroes, the steady monsoon filling 
our big sail till the British gunboats steamed in vain astern — 
that Ali Hassan, I say, so regular in kneeling, five times a day, 
on his prayer-carpet, with his face to the Black Stone of Mecca, 
their model captain ai^i holy sheik, was, really and truly, the 
son of an English parson ! — Do try a cigarette, Silas ; it makes 
a man feel so selfish, smoking all alone.” 

Mr Melville, with some tact, accepted the cigarette which, 
for the third time, Chinese Jack proffered, and lighted it ; but, 
after three or four whiffs, he withdrew it from between his 
lips. “ Thank you ; my constitution won’t stand that. Opium, 
eh ? ” he said, tossing the tiny paper cylinder away. 

“ Of course it is,” answered Chinese Jack indifferently. 
“ Turk and Levantine are much of the same mind as the 
Celestials on that head. I, for one, couldn’t get on without the 
poppy to shed its soothing influence over my tobacco.” 

“ You always were a wonder, physically, Rollingston,” said 
the American, with a glance of admiration at the well-knit form 
of the powerful man who had done and dared so much ; “ but 
it is ill to tamper with poisons of that sort. What I want to 
understand is, that I feel sure of victory. There will be a 
movement on the adverse side — an artful claim speciously 
preferred ; and then, under the pressure of overwhelming 
proofs, such as I am sure I shall furnish, the cruel, false-faced 
girl, who has leagued herself with a schemer more experienced, 
if not wilier, than herself, will be placed for ever beyond the 
power of doing harm. Now, good-bye.” 

“ Bravo ! ” were the last words of Chinese Jack ; and as 
he spoke, he seemed to be infected by some of the American’s 
enthusiasm in the cause. Well done, Silas ! We shall 
unm ask her yet ! ” 




i6o 


ONE FALSE, BOTN FAIR. 


/ 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

“sister, dear sister.” 

It was not long after breakfast at Leominster House — a 
stiff, ceremonious meal, in that cold London palace — had been 
concluded, that a tiny note was handed tj its mistress. She 
took the note and read it, and then bit her red lip sharply, and 
frowned, and seemed to hesitate crushing meanwhile the tiny 
missive in her hand. Lady Barbara drew herself up until an 
extra inch seemed to be added to her tall stature, and looked 
austerely inquisitive. But the young lady was no daughter or 
ward who could be questioned ; so that when, as presently hap- 
pened, she left the room without a word of explanation as to 
her correspondent or her evident change of mood, the aunt of 
the late Wilfred was perforce silent. 

The younger lady went to what was called “ My Lady’s 
room,” upstairs, a bright little apartment enough, all silk and 
lace and gold and pearly white, more cheerful than any other 
room in that gloomy mansion. She rang the bell sharply twice, 
and it was not long before her favorite maid appeared, respon- 
sive to the summons. “Pinnett,” said she, almost eagerly, “I 
am expecting a visit — a visit from my sister. When Miss 
Carew arrives, which will be very soon, give orders that she 
shall be shown straight up here, and not on any account into 
the reception rooms, where Lady Barbara now is. You under- 
stand } ” 

“Yes, my lady.” That was all that the obedient abigail 
said, as deferentially she slipped out of the door to execute the 
bidding of her mistress. 

Left alone, she spread out, and for the third time perused 
the crumpled note. These were its contents : 

Dear, dear Sister — I am coming to see you. I will come 
this morning, soon after you have this note. I would not come 
without writing to tell you. You might wish to deny me admit- 
tance ; but I hope you will receive me. Can you see me alone ? 
I hope I may come to you. — Your loving sister.” 

Again the letter wa3 fiercely crushed in that clenched white 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 161 ; 

hand, as its recipient paced to and fro with quick steps, like a 
panther in its cage. There was a frown on her beautiful fore- 
head that robbed it of half its charm, and she bit her lip again 
and again in passionate self-forgetfulness of that moment. 

“ I was a fool — yes, a fool. Why did I say that I would see 
her ! ” she exclaimed petulantly, and already her grasp was on 
the handle of the bell. But second thoughts calmed the rising 
impulse. “ No,” she added slowly ; “ I cannot give a counter- 
order now. It is too late.” And then she paced the room 
again, with the swift steady step of some wild animal chafing 
in confinement. In less than a quarter of an hour the door was 
thrown open, and “ Miss Carew ” was announced. The door 
shut noiselessly behind her. She came forward, with arms ex- 
tended, tears in her eyes, and quivering lips. “ Sister,” she said, 
pleadingly, “ O dear sister, I have so longed to see you ! ” 
There was no relenting in the cold blue eyes that met hers. 
The sister thus appealed to had recoiled a little, taking no no- 
tice of the trembling hands held out to her ; and now she drew 
herself up, and, with a hard, defiant look, rejoined : “ Why have 
you come to me ? ” 

“ I was so lonely, dear,” gently replied the visitor ; “ and I 
thought, often and often, that you also must miss me, as I did 
you, and be solitary in the midst of all this grandeur, as I was 
at Pagan’s house in Bruton Street. And I have loved you all 
the time through all my sorrow, and in spite of all. So I came 
to-day to ask if you would see me. It seemed to me that, if we 

two could once meet, all would be well again and ” 

“ Well, you have chosen to come. What would you have 
from me ? ” was the impatient answer. 

“ First, and most of all, the wish nearest to nty heart,” re- 
plied the visitor, in the same imploring tone as before. “ I 
want my sister back again, to win her back to me, as in our old 
happy days at poor forsaken Carew. And then do not be 
angry, dearest — I want my own. All that is mine shall freely 
be shared with you ; but my own name, my own station, these 
should be given back to me, if not for justice, then surely for a 

sister’s love. Listen, then ” 

“ You have lawyers, I believe, on your side,” was the angry 
rejoinder. “ Do what you choose, or what you can. Why are 
you here to-day ! ” 

It was a strange interview. There had been, save on one 
side, no attempt at a greeting of sisterly affection. ^ There was 
no thought of the common and conventional amenities of social 
life. Both must have felt that the occasion was too moment- 


x 62 


ON-E FALSE, BO TIL FA IE. 


ous for mere trifling. Both, then, remained standing, the mis- 
tress of Leominster House with one jewelled hand resting on 
a table, her face pale, hard, and resolute, as one who defends a 
position stubbornly against all odds. In front of her, but at 
some little distance, was the beautiful suppliant, her eyes still 
fixed, as if in hope to see some sign of relenting on the fair face 
that was so like her own. 

The visitor paused for a space before she spoke again. 

Do you know, dearest,” she said at last, in a voice so sweet, 
soft, and touching, that a momentary quiver passed across her 
sister’s firm set lips, “ that there have been times when, as in 
our childish days, I was tempted to give up all to you, like some 
plaything, cheaply yielded up for the joy of a smile and a kind 
word. But sister, it would have been wrong. 1 am no child 
now ; and then there is the memory of my dead husband, of 
him to whom I owed all, to forbid a tame and cowardly surren- 
der of the rights he left me and the name that I should bear. 
It is the thought of Wilfred, more than all, that nerves me for a 

struggle which But, sister, must it come to this, or may 

I yet hope that you will turn to me, nay, to your own sweet self 

to your own better, truer nature, once again, and ” 

“Take your own course. My mind is quite made up. 
Words are wasted upon me,” interrupted the other feverishly. 

“There is something so unnatural,” pleaded the visitor, 
more sadly than before, “ something so strange and shocking, 
in a contest between us two, between twin-sisters like ourselves ; 
and yet such a contest must come, dear, if you will not do me 
right before the world, and for conscience’ sake, and mine. 
O come back to me, darling, and let the past be as a dreadful 
dream, never to be named again by either of us ; and do not 
let your poor Clare plead in vain ! ” 

Again, it was but for an instant, the set, unyielding features 
of the other sister quivered, and she looked down, and seemed 
to be in doubt. But when she raised heV haughty eyes again, 
there was no trace of the momentary emotion to be discerned. 

“ It is useless,” she said, in a cold harsh tone. “ If you had 
all that I possess, things dear to all, rank and power and place 
and worldly wealth, what I, as Lady Leominster, have at my 
command, would you — you — ^give it up, at my mere prayer ? ” 
“ If you were in the right, dear, and I were in the wrong, 
then most willingly would I resign all this,” was the gently ut- 
tered reply. 

“ Then, for all purposes, we will assume that I am in the 
right. Whether or not I am so, matters little,” rejoined the 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 163 

Other, with a mocking laugh of cruel scorn, that sounded doubly 
bitter on young lips like hers. 

The visitor started back, as from a blow. “ O sister, dear 
sister,” she said, sobbing, “ is it over, then ? Must we two 
never, never more be as we were ? ” 

It was in a voice that was less assured, and with a manner 
slightly softened, that she who was thus appealed to made ans- 
wer : “Miss Carew, nothing that you can say or do can alter 
my position. My rank is now happily recognized and — un- 
alterable.” Then it was in a voice that had no music in its 
ring that she added : “ Good-bye, Miss Carew. This interview 
I think, had better end.” 

Slowly and sorrowfully, without a word or a glance, the 
visitor withdrew, descended the broad staircase, crossed the 
hall beneath the respectful scrutiny of the wondering servants ; 
and then the outer doors were opened for her egress, and she 
passed out alone to her brougham. 

In the morning-room above, as soon as the door had closed 
behind her sister, the young mistress of Leominster House had 
dung herself wildly down upon the sofa, and with her head half- 
buried among the cushions, almost moaned out the words : “ Too 
late — too late ! I wish that it had never been. But there can 
be no turning back upon the path I tread. Right or wrong, I 
must go on.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

SIR PAGAN" DINES AT HOME. 

Sir Pagan, for a wonder, dined at home on the day suc- 
ceeding that which had witnessed his sister’s fruitless visit to 
Leominster House. The baronet’s habits, as has been pre- 
viously mentioned, were eminently undomestic. He rarely 
partook of any meal, save breakfast, beneath the shelter of his 
own roof. But now he had come back, that very afternoon, as 
fast as steam could bring him along the iron way, from a three 
days’ absence in the North ; and being in high good-humor, he 
had taken pity on his sister’s loneliness, and now sat opposite 
to her at his own somewhat shabbily appointed dinner-table, 


1 54 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

on that sultry August evening. Those two were not, perhaps, 
very congenial company to one another. Brothers, as a rule, 
have not much to say to their sisters ; though nowhere, 'when 
involved in money troubles, or crossed in love, do they find a 
.confidant so loyal and so patient as a sister is proud to be. 
On this occasion. Sir Pagan was unusually talkative. 

“ Knavesmire,” he said, more. than once, “didn’t turnout 
half-bad— not half-bad ; might have been better, though ; but I 
felt, when I left York, as if luck was going to change with me.” 

This poor simple Devonshire baronet had a half-heathen 
belief in luck, akin to the Roman’s fatalistic faith in Diva For- 
tuna. He had just returned from a great coursing contest in 
the North, and the qualified success which he had met with 
seemed of good augury to him. 

His sister knew no more of coursing matches and racing 
events than she did of mathematics. But she felt that she 
ought to care for the pursuits that interested her brother so 
much, the more so as Sir Pagan was so kind and lenient, in 
his rough way to her. And she remembered the sleek, slender 
greyhounds at Carew, and how gratefully they had looked up 
at her, with their glowing hazel eyes, when with her soft hand 
she had caressed those intelligent heads of theirs. Even now, 
old Dart, the grand black greyhound, too old for moorland 
scampers, was dividing his attentions between his master and 
the gentle girl who had patted him and talked soothingly to 
to him many *a day in far-off Devon. 

“ I, wish, brother,” she said, “ that Prince Arthur — King 
Arthur is it ? — had won the Cup.” 

“ He didn’t do it ; but he ought ; and if the judge hadn’t 
been a blind old buzzard, he would have seen that the other 
dog didn’t run fair in that last double ; and there were hun- 
dreds on the ground who thought like me,” returned Sir Pagan, 
as earnestly as if life and death depended on the observance 
of technical rules by a set of swift greyhounds contending un- 
consciously for the profit of their owners. “ But,” added Sir 
Pagan, rising from his chair, “ it w'asn’t, as I said, half-bad. 
Prince Arthur got a second place, if he got no more ; and Wes- 
ton, my trainer, you know — a deep fellow, Weston — feels cer- 
tain for the great prize next month on the Chester Roodee. 
Anyhow, we’ll hope so. — But sit still, my dear, sit still.” 

And his sister did sit still. She was used now to her 
brother and his queer ways, one of which was that, when he 
had to think, it seemed incumbent on Sir Pagan to jump up 
and walk about the room with quick strides, as he was doing 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


165 

then. It really did appear as though the baronet’s sluggish 
brains could not work unless his strong muscles were in mo- 
tion. It was after dinner by this, and the frugal dessert, which 
nobody wanted, stood uselessly on the table ; but Sir Pagan’s 
claret glass was more than half-full, and he had swallowed but 
very little of the ruby liquid in the decanter before him. There 
was something, clearly, on the baronet’s mind. He paced 
frowningly to and fro, like a man nerving himself for a difficult 
or painful task, and at last said", awkwardly enough : “ Now, 

my dear, blood’s thicker than water, and I, I hope, remember, 
it ; but ” 

“ But — is it. Pagan, that you are tired of having me here ? ” 
asked his sister in alarm, as he hesitated to finish his speech. 

“ No, no ; confound it ! no — not such a brute as that,” 
stammered out Sir Pagan, blushing crimson. “ No. What’s 
mine, while there’s cash or credit, is yours as much as ;t is my 
own; or hers either, for that matter,” added the baronet 
vaguely. “ What I did mean was quite the contrary, sister. 
Fact is, I’ve netted a trifle of money, after, settling scores 
with Weston, and paying up an lOU or two. And it must be 
so unpleasant for you to go on here in town without a shilling 
in your purse, and — so you are as welcome to my winnings, I 
assure you, as ever I made any man welcome to a glass of sherry, 

or Stop ! ” he said, after a moment of self-communing. 

* Yes, by Jove ! we had better say, half the sum for you, half 
for me — share and share. But I want you not to be pinched.” 

Poor, kindly, illiterate gentleman that Pagan Carew was, 
all his practical culture had taught him the lesson that cash 
was hard to get and harder to keep ; and he felt the voluntary 
abandonment of a handful of gold and notes as others would 
the loss of their lifeblood ; but he had been thinking seriously 
of his sister’s helpless condition, all the way from York to Lon- 
don, and hence the unwonted liberality of his proffered aid. 

His sister thanked him gracefully and gently, as was 
natural to her, as soon as she had quite grasped his meaning, 
imperfectly expressed. “ But I want nothing from you — no 
money, I mean, dear brother,” she said; and Sir Pagan in- 
stantly'felt a sense of relief that he did his best to hide but 
very lamely ; for he was clumsy -in all things except the han- 
dling of bridle, fowling-piece, or trout-rod. 

He sat down again, and emptied his glass with an air of 
serene satisfaction. In truth, he was one of those men who 
are capable of a sacrifice certainly, but who would make bwt 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


1 66 

ungainly martyrs at the best. ‘‘ I really did not know you had 
anything at all,” he said presently. 

“ I should have been obliged to throw myself on your 
bounty long ago, Pagan, had it been so,” his sister answered ; 
“ but I had seventy pounds in my purse when I — left Castel 
Vawr, and most of this little fortune I spent, with Mrs. Tucker’s 
help, in buying what was necessary and renewing my wardrobe, 
since all I brought from Egypt ^ras left behind at the castle.” 

“ I thought that starched, stiff old Lady Barbara had sent 
you your luggage,” blurted out the baronet, tapping with one 
weighty finger on the table. 

“ Not my luggage — not mine,” returned the sister. ‘‘ The 
trunks she sent remain upstairs unopened, for they were 
marked with the name of Miss Carew. I could not touch the 
things, for they were Cora’s, not mine.” 

“ Not* touch your own things ! ” exclaimed the baronet, with 
an honest surprise that he could not repress ; and then, red- 
dening, he said : “ Pooh ! nonsense. I don’t profess to under- 
stand it all. But after all, my lass, you have a little left.” 

“ More than I want for pocket-money, at present. Twenty 
pounds,” answered the girl smiling. 

“But surely,” resumed Sir Pagan, cudgelling his memory, 
“ there must be still, out of Aunt Catherine’s legacy, five hun- 
dred pounds lying in the Exeter bank to the credit of Cora 
Carew. One scrape of a pen ” 

“ Hush, brother, hush ! ” cried out the girl, her fair face all in 
a flame with rising color. “ Never could I meddle with the sum 
you speak of, were I starving and an outcast, for it is hers. I 
could not sign my sister’s name.” 

Sir Pagan made a wry face, as if his newly-poured bumper 
of sound claret had suddenly turned sour. “ Pshaw — rubbish ! 
he retorted, almost irritably. “ I wish, with all my heart, you 
would give up this useless harping on the same string. If you 
and she cannot get on comfortably together, as it seems ” 

“ But, brother, do you not believe 'that I am Clare — that I 
am Marchioness of Leominster ? ” the girl exclaimed, so 
eagerly as to make him wince. 

“ Believe it ! Bother it — I’d rather not believe anything, 
thank you, one way or the other,” ejaculated the unhappy 
baronet, pushing his chair back, and sweeping the dark hair 
from his swarthy brow. “ It is a most confounded mess, as 
women’s quarrels generally are, so far as my experience goes ; 
and I’d as soon take a hornet’s nest in my bare hands, as be 
mixed up in it, I give yon my word, \ believe nothing, for 


ONE FALSE, FOTH FA/F, l6y 

good or for bad, and I don’t intend to. I believe nothing, I 
say.” 

He was pacing to and fro now, in a state of the utmost dis- 
composure ; but it was quite plain that he meant what he said, 
and that he considered the neutral attitude which he had 
schooled himself to adopt, as a very stronghold and place of 
refuge. 

“ If you will not believe me, at least you arc not sorry, I 
hope, to have me here in Bruton Street ? ” asked his sister with 
a sad smile. 

“ That I am not, my dear,” replied the baronet, heartily 
enough ; for now he felt himself, so to speak, treading on 
firmer ground, and hospitality was one of the simple virtues 
that he had in his neglected youth been taught to prize, as an 
Arab does. “You are my sister, at any rate. There’s no 
doubt of that, I’m glad to say. And you do brighten up this 
dingy, dreary old rathole of a house, which I wish was a live- 
lier and a better home for you than I am able to 
make it. I may be rough — always was — wasn’t I, Dart, old 
fellow ! — but I mean well ; and if I can be of any use any day, 
just you let me know. I must be going, though, soon,” he 
added, with a glance at his watch ; “for I promised ” 

What Sir Pagan had promised, or with which of his bach- 
elor friends the appointment was made, signifies little. At 
any-rate, a quarter of an hour later he was treading the Pall- 
Mall pavement, bound for his club ; and his sister had crept 
slowly back to the solitude of the darkling drawing-room up- 
stairs. Sir Pagan had heard nothing from her lips as to her 
unsuccessful visit to Leominster House. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

I 

THE DECLARATION OF WAR. 

“Mr. Pontifex, my lady ! ” Such was the smoothly spoken 
announcement of the soft-treading servant-in-chief whose min- 
isterings were confined to the state apartment^ of Leomin- 
ster House. And then, with quick, brisk step, and bright eyes 
all attentive to the work in hand, the busy lawyer entered 
coming like a blast of fresh wholesome air into that enervating 


ONE FALSE, J^OTH FAIR. 


1 68 

atmosphere of serene languor J;hat prevailed in the great half- 
used London palace. It was easy to see, by the fashion of the 
announcement, that the names of Pounce and Pontifex stood 
high in servile estimation ; and indeed the domestics of a great 
family entertain a sort of awe for family solicitors, as if they 
were high-priests of the Isis of Law, and could, if they were 
angered, remove the veil — a veil, it may be, with all sorts of 
ugly secrets and awkward disclosures behind it. Nothing, in-, 
deed varies more oddly than the degree of respect with which the 
learned professions are treated. I have seen courtly doctors 
trip into a house, confident of as reverential a greeting as ever 
augur found in Athens or Pome when the plague was raging, 
and the shrines crowded, and the altars heaped with votive 
gifts. And I have known Medicine, in country districts of 
Southern England, meekly hitch its horse’s bridle over a rust- 
ed nail, and slink in at the back-door, to earn a half-crown fee 
and the profit on some pink draughts from the surgery, by pre- 
scribing for a feverish child. So it is with attorneys. There 
are some of them who get but an unceremonious reception and 
an impatient hearing from clients not as yet too sorely pinched 
by the proverbial shoe that suitors wear as they plod along the 
rugged road to where Themis stands waiting, with her blinded 
eyes and her sword and her scales. 

Mr. Pontifex, of the widely known firm of Pounce and 
Pontifex, belonged to the cream of the profession, and was 
most deservedly treated with corresponding respect. It was 
not very often that he paid a professional visit. More common- 
ly, his clients went to him. His presence, then, at Leominster 
House was of itself a compliment to that great historical House 
of the Lords Marchers for which Pounce and Pontifex had 
buckled on legal armor so often. There was no question, then, 
of delays and of a smuggled interview in some library or dis- 
used study; but the lawyer was ushered direct into the great 
gloomy reception room — the Red Room, according to the sage 
housekeeper’s catalogue — where his golden-haired client, and 
dapper Lord Putney, and benign Lady Barbara, were together 
in conclave. 

“Your ladyship’s note mentioned,” said Mr. Pontifex, 
after the first salutations had been exchanged, and as he took 
the chair that was offered to him, “ that you would almost im- 
mediately be leaving London for Castel Vawr. — And I arrang- 
ed my engagements so as to be able to have a word or two 
with you. Lady Leominster, previous to your departure, on a 
matter of much moment.” 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 169 

Mr. Pontifex’s manner was serious and businesslike, but 
quite free from any trace of embarrassment. He was always at 
his ease with great folks, having found that Earls, Viscounts, 
and Duchesses thought and felt, when anxious about money 
and matrimony, the scrapes of their sons and the settlements 
of their daughters, very much like the untitled and unknown. 

“ I should be in the way — I’d better go,” said Lord Putney, 
gracefully rising and preparing to take his leave. 

“ I see no occasion for that. Ladies, my lord, are always 
the better for the counsel of a gentleman,” returned Lady 
Barbara, stiff, but smiling. 

“ Pray, stop with us. Lord Putney,” almost whispered the 
other lady ; “pray, do not go. Nothing which concerns us — 
concerns me — should be kept a secret from you now,” she 
added, so prettily and with so sweet a droop of her lovely eyes, 
that the delighted old beau could not refrain from kissing the 
tips of his bejewelled fingers and waving them towards the 
beautiful speaker ; just as exquisites and dandies, his contem- 
poraries, had done when Cerito danced and Jenny Lind sang, 
and Lady Blessington and Count D’Orsay arbitrated over 
Fashion. From all which, and from the steady smile that 
Lady Barbara wore, just as a ship is dressed with gay-colored 
flags on festal occasions, it may be gathered that Lord Putney’s 
betrothal to the mistress of Leominster House had been made 
public, and might now be announced by the discreetest of news- 
papers. The secret had indeed been ill kept. Lord Putney 
himself, where his own vanity was in question, was a very sieve, 
incapable of keeping back the information, which he imparted 
to a score or so of friends. And then the Society journals, 
bold and pert as London sparrows, bluntly published tlae banns 
of marriage between the noble young widow and her elderly 
bachelor admirer ; and it was thought that a confirmation 
rather than a contradiction of the rumor was desirable. 

“ I should be sorry to be the cause of banishing Lord Putney, 
I am sure,” said Mr. Pontifex, with the faintest possible twinkle 
in his eye, as he glanced at that nobleman, of whose peculiarities 
and worldly status he had heard a good deal. He was no 
client of his. It was on the shelves of Messrs. Hawke and 
Heronshaw that the japaned deed boxes, with the name of the 
Right Hon. George Augustus, Viscount Putney, reposed ; but 
Mr. Pontifex had the affairs of the House of Leominster too 
thoroughly within his cognizance to anticipate that the profitable 
business of that noble family should be transferred to another 
firm. And Lord Putney had seventy thousand a year, at the 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


170 

lowest computation ; notoriously did not owe a shilling ; bore a 
character as spotless as his own dainty shirt-front ; and was 
altogether a desirable woer. 

“ Then I’ll stay ; but nobody must expect advice from me 
worth having,” said Lord Putney, with youthful playfulness. 
“ When it comes to matters of business, I am as helpless as a 
child. John Doe and Richard Roe, as heroes of fiction, were 
always much admired by me ; but I regret to learn that these 
imaginary personages, whom I used to dream of as a sort of 
Robin Hood and Little John clad in Lincoln Green, have been 
ruthlessly swept away ; and with them, I am afraid all the poetry 
of Law has departed. The rest of it. Lady Barbara, seems to 
me a mere jangle of repetitions about tenements and messuages 
and parcels of land and sums of money, and tenants-in-tail and 
remainder-men. I wonder,” added his lordship softly, *‘what 
a remainder-man looks like — something very shabby and hun- 
gry, I should say. But this is mere conjecture, and I am taking 
up this gentleman’s valuable time.” 

Mr. Pontifex, who probably knew the value of his time re- 
markably well, smiled urbanely. “ I should not have been 
here to-day,” he remarked blandly, “ but that I thought it best, 
before Lady Leominster, and you. Lady Barbara, left London, 
to inform you precisely how we stand. Of course, for some 
time past it has been my duty to inform the Marchioness that 
a storm was brewing, an attack being prepared. Now, I am 
here to mention the fact, not alarming, but important, that the 
attack has really begun, and that the first shot has been fired 
by the enemy.” 

The young lady became strangely agitated. She could not 
avoid it. She could not help the fact that her little white fin- 
gers clutched the arm of her chair, or that her fair young face 
grew anxious and alarmed. 

Lady Barbara looked as a Montgomery might have looked 
when panting messengers came rushing to the stronghold on 
the steep to tell how the barefooted, white-mantled Welsh 
wen;* spreading havoc through the country, marching in force 
on Castel Vawr. She had a full share of the courage of her 
race, and would have been ready then, with mangonel and 
arblast and falconet on the strong stone battlements, to re- 
ceive the onset of the furious clans from the West. We fight 
now with the help of paid advocates, not of paid men-at-arms, 
and in costly law-courts, not on fields of battle, over which 
hover, screaming and croaking, hawk, raven, and carrion-crow. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


17I 

But Lady Barbara was quite ready, in purse and person, for 
either contigency. She was the first to speak. 

“ You mean, Mr. Pontifex ? ” she said. 

Mr. Pontifex, who was secretly proud of having used a 
neatly figurative expression, and who had forgotten that ladies 
seldom or never enjoy a metaphor, proceeded to explain. “ I 
mean, he said, “ that Miss Cora Carew and her legal adviser 
Mr. Sterling have at last plucked up courage — if I may without 
offence employ so homely an expression — to commence formal 
proceedings in support of your ladyship’s sister’s claim. Reg- 
ular notice of action has been given, and the case, in the form 
of a plea for ejectment, is to be tried at the winter assize at 
Marchbury.” 

“ Why at Marchbury ? ” asked his youthful client, bending 
eagerly forward. 

“ Because,” answered the smiling lawyer, “ Castel Vawr — 
for the recovery of which, and of the rents, for life, accruing 
from the estate, the action is brought — lies within the compass 
of the circuit. We could get the venue changed, I daresay, on 
application to the judges who are to try the case ; but I scarcely 
see why we should not fight it out, as I may say on our own 
ground.” . 

So thought Lady Barbara, and so she said. Her warlike 
ancestors, ever loyal to the king, had ridden many a time into 
Marchbury with trampling horses and lance in rest, after defeat- 
ing wild Welshmen or English rebels and had possibly clattered 
through those stony and picturesque streets, with Cromwell’s 
pursuing cavalry in chase ; and the name of the ancient town 
was dear to her. The present holder of Castel Vawr was quite 
ready to submit to the opinion of Lady Barbara and of Mr. 
Pontifex. But Lord Putney arched his delicately pencilled eye- 
brows into the pointed form, and peered through his gold-rimmed 
eyeglass somewhat anxiously at the lawyer. It had been that 
nobleman’s ambition to be a butterfly, exempt from the common 
cares* and troubles of coarse worldlings, and scarcely deigning 
to sip his share of nectar from the golden goblets that mantle 
and froth for Olimpians such as he. But, for all that, the Right 
Hon. George Augustus had complicated affairs to attend to, a 
great London and Middlesex property, a large acreage of pasture 
and barleycpoft in Hertfordshire, to drive in hand, so to speak ; 
and had he not been a shrewder man of business than it pleased 
him to be thought, he would have been a far poorer lord than 
he was. As a rule, when a man professes to be a perfobt chi]|i 
about money, it is as well to beware of that man, as of a wolf In 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


[72 

iheep’s clothing. But Lord Putney meant no harm. All his 
oibles were self-contained, and his besetting sin was vanity. 

“ Marchbury, then, let it be,” said Mr. Pontifex, smiling ; 
ind indeed solicitors, like surgeons and dentists, have a trick 
)f smiling when the moment of action draws near. “ We have 
ecured, as was our duty, very high professional assistance : the 
\ttorney-general. Sir Richard — whose reputation, I am sure, 
^ady Barbara is known to you.” 

“ Sir Richard Savage is very clever, and a fine speaker, in 
md out of parliament, I believe,” said Lady Barbara approv- 
ngly. 

“ And he will have colleagues worthy of him,” cheerily rejoin- 
d Mr. Pontifex ; “ barristers less brilliant and renowned, but 
;reat in their own lines — Mr. Mudford, Q. C. ; Serjeant Flowers, 
.Iways good for a jury ; and that invaluable black-letter man, Mr. 
jrubb, to whose dictum as to precedents and points of law their 
Drdships listen with respect. We shall be well represented, 
ou see.” 

“ Flowers — Serjeant Flowers,” repeated Lord Putney, as if 
onsulting his memory. “ You know best, Mr. Pontifex, and I 
lave only a hearsay acquaintance with such topics, but is not 
hat learned gentleman a bit of a buffoon ? ” « 

“ Quite so, my lord,” answered Mr. Pontifex, unabashed. 

■ But it generally answers, for cross-examination of nervous 
/itnesses, to have a light comedian amongst the heavier metal 
f one’s forensic artillery. And it is a point to make the jury 
lugh at some stage of the proceedings. Yes ; we shall be 
trong, very strong. The opposite side, however, will not be 
reak. There will be a contest of eloquence, and, what matters 
lore, of learning and of skill.” 

Lady Barbara’s strongly marked features wore an expression 
f deep disgust. “ I am surprised,” she said, scornfully, “that 
ny but the dregs . of the profession should be brazen-faced 
nough to come into open court' and champion a claim so shame- 
iss, so monstrous as this. I thought better of the Bar of Eng- 
ind than to believe it possible.” 

The younger lady grew perceptibly paler. Lord Putney said 
Dmething, that was meant to be reassuring, to her in a low 
)ne, and then pricked up his ears, as if eager to hear more. 
Ir. Pontifex seemed to feel as though it were incumbent on 
im to extenuate the celestial ire of that haughty Diana, his es- 
lemed client. Lady Barbara Montgomery, against the peccant 
arristers of England. 

“It is a pity,” he said smoothly, and as though apologizing 


ONE EALSE, BOTH EAIR. 


173 

for the deliquents ; “ but professional etiquette does not allow a 
counsel to pick and choose. Sir Simon Skinner, my friend Mr. 
Huddleston, Mr. Beamish, and Mr. Grouter, are against us. Sir 
Simon, a very eminent lawyer, I need hardly say, was Attoney- 
general of the late, as Sir Richard is of the f “esent government, 
as I daresay Lord Putney will remember.” 

Lord Putney, however, did not choose to remember. “ I know 
nothing of these subjects,” he said, innocently. “I was only 
once in my life in a court of law ; and I was dreadfully bored, 
and I think I caught cold — indeed, I am sure I did — on account 
of a broken window. I trust they will be very particular as to 
draughts, if we are all to be personally present at that winter 
assize at Marchbury, which has a bleak, chilly sound of itself.” 

After this, not much more was said relative to business, and 
Mr. Pontifex shortly took his leave. He could not but notice 
that his pretty client was unusually silent, and that her eyes 
wore a dreamy look as though her thoughts were far away. 

“Your ladyship leaves town to-morrow ? ” asked the solici- 
tor, as he rose to go. 

“ No ; the day after to-morrow,” replied Lady Barbara. 
“We shall see you, I hope at, Castel Vawr.” 


V 

^ CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE PROPOSAL. 

It was the day following that on which Sir Pagan had paid 
his sister the rare compliment of dining at home, that “ Mr. Tal- 
bot, my lady ” was announced. The visits of friends of either 
sex were very rare in that Bruton Street house, scarce, almost, 
as the proverbial visits of angels. Sir Pagan’s friends knew 
where to find him, at the club that was his real domicile, and 
did not waste trouble in idle pilgrimages to Bruton Street. 
His unpaid tradesmen had grown tired of giving their impera- 
tive single knocks at the door of a gentleman who was never 
at home, and comfined themselves to peremptory postal inter- 
course. Very seldom did Sir Thomas Jenks, and excellent 
country gentlemen of his grade in society, trouble the groom- 
footman of their brother baronet as to whether or no his master 
was at home. And therefore the groom-footman was just then, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


174 

in a striped waistcoat of yellow and black, like the body of an 
exaggerated wasp, hissing at the horses as he rubbed them 
down, in the mews adjacent ; while it fell to the lot of a mere 
housemaid, in cap and apron, to usher in Arthur Talbot. 

Very, very loyal were the Devonians of that impoverished 
household. The maid who showed Mr. Talbot, in domestic 
parlance, in, would sooner have forfeited the fifteen pounds 
odd shillings arrears of wages of which she stood in slipshod 
need, than not have said “ my lady ” to her whom coarse out- 
siders spoke of as Miss Carew. Loyalty is a tough plant, and 
hard to eradicate. 

Arthur Talbot wore a thoughtful, and perhaps a slightly 
embarrassed air. He had been thinking, long and painfully, 
and the result of his meditations was that it behoved him no 
longer to play the part of a mere watcher of events, a waiter 
upon Providence, as it was called when Oliver Cromwell ruled 
as Lord Protector over us, but frankly to offer to Clare the in- 
jured, Clare the wronged, his hand, and his name, and the 
shelter of his roof, down in leafy Hampshire. So far as our 
experience goes of disinterested wooers, four out of five lay no 
deliberate plans for a campaign matrimonial, but blunder, ac- 
cording to the chapter af accidents, into the position of en- 
gaged men. The fifth, we will say, of such honest swains, 
bides his time, and makes up his mind, and comes to tell his 
tale of love, more or less awkwardly. 

“ I thought I should perhaps find you at home,” said Ar- 
thur, with proper insular conventionality of diction. 

I am always here — if that is being at home,” answered 
Sir Pagan’s sister, with a sad, patient smile. 

“ Then let me offer you a better and a happier home, at 
least, than this,” exclaimed the young man eagerly. “ Clare, 
dear, darling Clare, forgive me if I am abrupt and rough ; but 
it half maddens me to think of you pining here, like a caged 
bird, alone, in this sad house. Yes ; I have loved you, darling, 
long — but it was not till we were both in England again, and 
' till Egypt, and the memory of our old intercourse there, seemed 

like a dream of the past, that I But I am a sad egotist. I 

did not mean to distress you.” 

She was weeping now, her face hidden in her slender hands, 
the beautiful head bowed low. It was not without a struggle 
that she presently, in a broken voice, made answer; “You 
are very kind, Mr. Talbot, and very generous. But I have no 
right to ask such a sacrifice from your friendship ; I have no 


ONE EALSE, BOTH EA/E. 


17S 

right to link your prosperous young life to such a one as 
mine.” 

Very dejected was her attitude, very hopeless her tone, and 
yet, somehow, Arthur’s heart leaped at the sound of her words, 
as that of any chivalrous suitor would have done. “ Friend- 
ship is one thing, and love is another,” he said, earnestly, ris- 
ing to his feet. “ The more alone you seem, dear Clare, the 
blacker is the prospect before you, the more do I long to offer 
you the solace of a husband’s love. Had you returned to Eng- 
land in tranquil enjoyment of your own, the rich and courted 
young Marchioness of Leominster, I doubt if Arthur Talbot, 
either at Castel Vawr or Leominster House, would ever have 
found his tongue. You would have been wealthy, Clare, and I a 
mere petty Squire, and I should have felt ashamed of appear- 
ing to presume on former intimacy, and so, like a coward, I 
daresay, have dropped into the background. But I should not 
have forgotten you.” 

“You — you believe in me, then ? ” she asked, suddenly, 
almost wildly, as she raised her tear-stained face and bent her 
eyes, timidly, upon him. 

“ As I believe in the heaven above us ! ” answered Arthur, 
flushing crimson. “ It is Clare whom I love — the widow of 
my dead friend — and it is Clare, robbed, wronged, and deso- 
late, whom I long to take to my heart, and to call my wife, and 
to do what I can to shield from the hard injustice of the 
world.” 

The girl looked at him for a moment trustfully, and then 
sadly shook her head. “ Mr. Talbot,” she said sorrowfully, 
“ you must not let yourself be led away by a noble impulse to 
do what your own relations, your own friends, would blame and 
regret. I have thought, often, as I sat solitary here, in this 
melancholy place, that I was as one of those who of old lay 
under the ban of the Church, to whom fire and water, food and 
shelter, the touch of a friendly hand, the sound of a friendly 
voice, were shudderingly denied, or came only by stealth, be- 
cause men and women were more merciful than the cruel sway 
to which all had to submit. My own brother — and yet poor 
dear Pagan is kindness itself — will not listen to me. No one, 
except Mr. Sterling the lawyer, and these poor servants here, 
and that terrible woman, Madame de Lalouve, seem to believe 
that I am myself— that Clare is Clare,” she added, pressing 
her white hands upon her throbbing temples. “There are 
times, indeed there are, when I feel as if I doubted my own 
identitv.” ‘ 


ONB BALSB, BOTH BAIR. 


176 

“ But / do not doubt,” returned Talbot gently. 

Do you not know ” she said, “ that, in a few short weeks 
or months, at the winter assize at Marchbury, my claim is to 
be urged — perhaps in vain. • My adversary — ah, that I should 
have to speak of her by such a name ! — has all the advantages 
on her side — possession, wealth, friends, and allies, and the 
dull reluctance of the world to believe in a story of wrong such 
as mine. I can see that even Mr. Sterling has his fears for 
the result. Should the verdict go against me — what shall I be 
reckoned, throughout the length and breadth of England, but 
a disgraced impostor, a miserable counterfeit. And the gates 
of Castel Vawr will be for ever shut against me.” 

“ Let the door of Oakdene open, then, dearest, before that 
day comes, to receive its new mistress,” answered Talbot, as 
he succeeded in possessing himself of the little hand, that lay, 
cold and passive, in his grasp. “ Mine is a humble home, 
compared with yonder castle, or the London palace ; but I will 
answer for it that those of my own blood, and all who are my 
friends, will take my view of the case, and greet my dear young 
wife with respect and honor, however lawyers may prate, or 
jurymen decide. Come, come, dear Clare, it is you I love — 
not Castel Vawr, not your title, not your fortune — let them go 
if needs must. There will still be enough for us two, and I 
should urge my suit, if I were poorer than I am, sooner than 
leave you to fret and fade in Bruton Street. But perhaps I 
am a vain fool,” he added, more dubiously, as she returned 
him no answer — “ perhaps you care nothing for me — save as a 
passing acquaintance, and ” 

‘‘ Arthur ! ” That was all she said, in a tone of shy reproach, 
and she looked up at him with her glorious eyes, glittering 
through the tears that clung to them. It was one of those mo- 
ments when heart speaks to heart, and soul to soul, with a 
dumb eloquence that dwarfs all our oratory. Those two under- 
stood one another at last. And Arthur’s arm was round Clare’s 
waist, now — we may call her, for the moment, by the name that 
so true a lover used — and he drew her to his breast, and her 
fair head and blushing face rested coyly on his shoulder, yet 
with a delicious sense of protection found and a haven of secu- 
rity reached at last, such as only a loving woman, long lonely 
and unfriended, can feel. And for a time those two were very 
silent and very happy^ But when they began to converse 
again, on one point Sir Pagan’s sister proved firm, and no ex- 
postulations of Arthur’s could shake her purpose. There must 
be no marriage, perhaps, indeed, it would be better, so she 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


177 

said, that there should be no public engagement, until after 
the trial at MarChbury. 

But I must speak to your brother,” urged Talbot, and 
the girl consented that “ dear old Pagan ” should be informed 
of his sister’s betrothal to the Squire of Oakdene. As for the 
rest, they must both be content to wait until after the winter 
assizes, and the trial at Marchbury. 

“ Should I win,” said Clare, with a quivering lip ; “ there 
will be no disgrace to follow me to my husband’s home. But, 
should it be otherwise — if I am held up to shame before all 

England as a baffled cheat, then, Arthur, if you still wish ” 

He kissed her, and bade her believe that, though all Eng- 
land were against her, his faith would be unshaken. 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

AT SIR TIMOTHY BRIGGS’S. 

Sir Timothy Briggs was emphatically the right man in 
the right place. As there must be, in the natural fitness of 
; things, auriferous sponges to suck up, if not actually to make, 
gold and silver, so, surely, there must be shower-baths or rain- 
! clouds to redistribute it. Now, Sir Timothy was both a gold- 
; absorbing sponge, and a gold-scattering shower-bath. What 
his great starch manufactory at Lambeth brought in — and it 
was very much,' for all of us need a stiff smooth shirt-front, and 
the name of Briggs, of the Royal Starch Works, Prince 
Albert Street, carried weight with the retail trade — he was 
spending with a most liberal hand. Yet Sir Timothy was no 
spendthrift. His annual expenditure,^ large and almost lavish, 
hvas well warranted by his means. Two generations of the 
Briggs race before him had dealt in starch. He profited by 
the harvest of their toil, and of his own, for Sir Timothy, if not 
Vjuite equal to his father Samuel, and his grandfather Ephraim, 
Avas a shrewd man of business. He had plenty of consols, 
plenty of railway debentures and preference stock, and could 
afford to please himself. 

Sir Timothy had pleased himself in three ways — he had 
become a landed gentleman ; he had got into parliament ; and 
he had married a noble wife. , His kiiighthood had Come to 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


178 

him as a consequence of the first two of these advantages. He 
had bought, within six miles of Castel Vawr, a tidy little prop' 
erty, that brought him in, perhaps, four thousand a year, 
gross receipts, and cost him net, in model cottages, pattern 
piggeries, roads, bridges, drain-tiles, farm buildings, and general 
satisfaction, perhaps six. But he was quite content. ' He had 
never been ambitious enough to hope for a profit from his 
freehold, and then, had he not for consolation the remembrance 
of the many wagon-loads of starch that rumbled through the 
echoing gates of the Royal Starch Works — Briggs supplied 
Royalty as well as humbler customers — daily. What Sir 
Timothy wanted was popularity. He got it, of a sort. It is 
pleasant to see smiling faces around one, and, what with doles 
and alms, fancy wages for those who could work, and reduced 
rents for those who could pay, there were smiling faces enough 
around Sir Timothy. 

The name of Sir Timothy’s house was New Hatch. It was 
not a new house, being in date Elizabethan, and therefore, 
though he wished that the old red brick manor-house, built 
about the time of Raleigh’s glorious buccaneering, had borne 
any other name, he was too sensible to alter it. ^t he added 
to it, in doubtful taste, but at vast cost, and so as to secure the 
maximum of comfort, space and splendor. Two Palladian 
wings, joined to the body of a gabled Elizabethan mansion, 
with a renovated front in the Queen Ann style, and plate-glass 
windows flashing back the sun, might set a scientific architect’s 
teeth on edge, but as we live within our houses, not outside 
them, the result might be, as in this case it was, a congeries of 
luxuriously furnished apartments, with conservatories, aviary, 
aquarium, all that could be wished for. The gardens were a 
blaze of azaleas, roses, rhododendrons ; the lawns were velvet ; 
the park was overstocked with tame deer, the jealously watched 
preserves with tame pheasarfts, crying, so to speak, in their 
lazy way ; Come shoot me, for I am weary of my life, suffer- 
ing as I do, under a plethora of indolence, mashes, chives, and 
barley.’’ Sir Timothy was wont to boast that every bird there 
stood him a guinea and a half, yet he was unsparing when a 
battue was planned. 

So much for the knight’s local habitation. Now for his 
legislative status^ and his matrimonial felicity. Sir Timothy 
was M. P. for Tipton-on-Silvern, which said borough, pictu- 
resquely perched on the bank of the pellucid Silvern, was re- 
puted as the paradise of freemen, and the town where no poor 
voter, with an election pending or probable, need ever be 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


179 

without half-a-crown in his pocket and beer in his mug — and 
had bought his seat, through two parliaments, as effectually 
though more discreetly than he had purchased his estate. He 
had bought his wife, too. Lady Juliana, certainly, was only 
the daughter of an Irish earl (Kilkerne), but she was a splendid 
woman, as Sir Timothy, who was a dumpy little man, twelve 
years her senior, often remarked in confidence, to his inferiors. 
She was a very showy, ornamental wife to him, and, withal, 
sweet-tempered, patient, and conscientious, as these large, 
stupidish women often are. She had been, at first, very unwilling 
to marry Sir Timothy Briggs. She felt that a De Clancy — 
Lord Kilkerne’s family were De Clancys — might look higher 
than Starch ; nor had Sir Timothy the personal graces that 
find favor with the fair sex. But the out at the elbows Earl of 
Kilkerne had come up to London, at an expense that, with his 
encumbered estate and nonpaying tenants, he could ill afford, 
expressly to marry off his daughters, and of the five big, dark- 
eyed, handsome, dull-witted girls, the Lady Juliana was the 
largest and the least talkative. So, when Sir Timothy offered 
splendid settlements, the earl stamped, threatening to convey 
his recalcitrant child back to Ballythunder, the prospect of the 
Bog of Allen, and hopeless celibacy, unless she accepted Sir 
Timothy. 

Lady Juliana did accept Sir Timothjr. They were married, 
and, as the dear old story-books say, were happy ever after. 
Or, if not, why not At any rate, they were blessed with a"* 
all events a reasonable share of felicity. Sir Timothy had an 
excellent digestion, and was a kindly husband. Lady Juliana 
was a pattern wife for such a lord. She really was a good 
creature, though lazy, and in her dull way tried to please her 
spouse, and was superb at the head of his table, a quality 
which Sir Timothy valued above all virtues. He had energy 
enough for both. His great aim was to shine in society. To 
this end had he bought New Hatch, and converted it into a 
rural palace. To this end had he bought and smirked himself 
into the House of Commons. To this end had he espoused 
Lady Juliana De Clancy. There were no children in the New 
Hatch nursery, and therefore the well-assorted couple had 
nothing to do but to devote themselves to the cultivation of 
Society. Sir Timothy, in London, at his fine house in Devon- 
shire Square, gave sumptuous dinners ; and his wife enter- 
tained half London at a rout or two, and the master of New 
Hatch was indeed a proud man when guests crowded his hos- 
pitable mansion in the Marches. There it was that he conceti- 


l8o ONE FALSE, BOTH FAII^. 

trated his efforts to entertain in princely style. His stables 
were on a great scale. There was no mistake about his 
pheasants. The Hunt was able to give five days’ sport, in- 
stead of three, owing to the more than liberal subsidy that 
came from New Hatch. The New Hatch cellars were gorged 
with wines of portentous vintages ; and as for the French 
cook-in-chief, M. Achilles Colichimarde, that overrated Gascon 
artist had been lured away from the employment of the Mega- 
therion, and was now engaged, to bear sway in the New Hatch 
kitchen. 

Sir Timothy was no fool. He knew the value of dry cham- 
pagne and ortolans and battue- shooting, of mounts with the 
hounds and claret of comet year vintage. He was, then, par- 
ticular about the quality of his guests. “ I want fine folks for 
my money ! ” was his frequent remark, sometimes to his wife, 
but more often to some humbler confident, house-steward, bailiff 
or the like. He got fine folks, or at least fashionable ones, to 
some extent ; and such pretenders as Mr. Beamish or Ned 
Tattle had no more chance of coaxing themselves into an invi- 
tation to New Hatch than into getting asked to Sandringham 
or Chatsworth. But, as a rule, he only secured the company 
of those who, though they rnight bear titles, were near the rose, 
rather than the rose itself. Very great people, with dry cham- 
pagne and overfed pheasants of their own, -and yachts and 
grouse moors too, did not care to come to New Hatch. Stars 
of tne second magnitude preferred other billets. The lions of 
the season chose to roar elsewhere. 

It was a real treat to Sir Timothy when somebody told him 
in confidence that Lord Putney was dying to be asked to New 
Hatch — Lord Putney, who, notoriously, was soon to be married 
to the young mistress of Castel Vawr, Sir Timothy’s grandest 
neighbor. There was an acquaintance between the magnates 
of New Hatch and Castel Vawr, and Lady Barbara was always 
gracious to Lady Juliana, but there was not exactly an intimacy. 
Such a friendship ^would soon ripen, were the elderly expectant 
bridegroom once a guest at New Hatch. Five miles — in the 
country — signity nothing. Now Sir Timothy had a very slight 
knowledge of Lord Putney, but he knew Sir John Heavilands, 
a baronet with an involved estate, who lived nearer to March- 
bury, and at whose house the jaunty Viscount was just then 
staying. So he and Lady Juliana drove over, with the best 
liveries and the gray horses, to Heavilands, to visit their dear 
friends Sir John and Lady Heavilands in their tumbledown 
old manor-house among rook-haunted elms, and came back 


DATE FALSE, FOTI! FAIR. 


i8i 

well satisfied ; for not only had Lord Pntney proved most 
obligingly ready to join the company at New Hatch, but His 
Lordship had craved an invitation for his almost inseparable 
friend and kinsman, the Honorable Algernon March, a tall 
young Guardsman, with more muscular than cerebral develop- 
ment, who liked his cousin Putney, and was grateful for money 
lent and creditors pacified, and who was to be “ best man ” of 
his senior when the wedding should come off. 

A word about the company at New Hatch, which Lord Put- 
ney and his relative speedily joined. Seldom outside of a 
chapter of the most noble order of the Garter, has there been 
such a betitled company. Sir Timothy never said to his wife, 
and perhaps not even to himself, that he would invite no one 
without a handle to his or her name. But that was the virtual 
principle on which he acted. He was the patron saint of im- 
pecunious Lord Alfreds and of needy Sir Harrys. One Lord 
George had brought his Lady George with him. But there was 
only one woman there who had been a peeress, and this was 
the Dowager Countess of Mildborough, who had been only too 
glad to bring her good-looking daughters. Lady Flora Vigors 
and Lady Celia' Vigors, from her narrow and gloomy little 
Curzon Street house to roomy and splendid New Hatch. Poor 
old Lady Mildborough was as unhappy a chaperon as any in 
London, since her daughters were growing desperate in their 
hopes and testy in their tempers, after six seasons of useless 
hawking after that shy bird, the eligible and marrying young 
man of high degree. The girls themselves, were well enough 
to look upon, but they must have had bad luck, or some- 
thing in their manners that counteracted the effect of pretty 
features, since their contemporaries had been wedded, and they 
left unasked. Lady Mildborough herself had much to endure, 
what with her nerves, and her tendency to rheumatism, the late 
hours, the dunning tradesmen, the narrow income that was to 
provide carriages and ball-dresses. The late earl had been the 
poorest of patricians, glad of a guinea for his attendance at the 
Boards of City concerns where a titled director is worth his 
price. But Lady Flora and Lady Celia had dressed their faces 
in smiles, for they knew the advantage of being in a country- 
house where heirs to estates more or less worth the having were 
no scarcity. 

Lord Putney and Algernon March came, accordingly, and, 
as Sir Timothy had shrewdly and accurately conjectured would 
be the case, there was soon a constant interchange of visits and 
of hospitalities between New Hatch and Castel Vawr. There 


i 82 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FALK, 


was even a project, which somehow, got postponed as to the 
execution of it until later in the season, as to a grand picnic in 
the midst of the finest and wildest scenery of the adjoining 
mountains, on the Welsh side of the border. But, in the mean- 
time, the opportunities for intercourse, in the fine autumn 
weather, were very frequent, and Sir Timothy congratulated 
himself on the diplomatic foresight which had caused him to 
get the future husband of the Marchioness, and the future 
Master of Castel Vawr, lodged beneath his own roof. Lord 
Putney did his best, with practised skill, to make himself agree- 
able. It was for him an easy task, where his host and hostess, 
and indeed all, were predetermined to be pleased with him. 
And the fact was that an odd sort of respect, in spite of the 
smiles that his foibles evoked, did attend Lord Putney. He 
was known to be the soul of honor, and had done many a kind 
act, without ostentation and without effort. His affectations were 
of a patent and notable kind, but, once forget them, and it was 
difficult not to feel a sort of liking for the Viscount. His 
henchman, the Honorable Algernon, really felt uncertain some- 
times whether his jaunty patron and cousin were a young man 
like himself, or a shaky veteran giving himself the airs of 
adolescence. 

That Lord Putney should be engaged to marry the young 
Lady of Castel Vawr was a wonder to some of those assembled 
at New Hatch, and the more so when they thought of the great 
trial to take place at the winter assizes, at Marchbury, and of 
the ugly doubts that rested, in some few minds, as to the lady’s 
identity. But the very fact that Lord Putney was so stanch to 
his troth-plight appeared an indirect proof of the strength of 
her cause. Certainly, it was not for her money that he had 
sought her. Large as her rent-roll was, his own income was 
larger still. A suitor so rich was clearly above all mercenary 
motives. 

“ Put. doesn’t want her money, not a sixpence of it,” said 
the Honorable Algernon, in the hours of confidential cigar 
smoking at Sir Timothy’s ; “ but I think he does care a bit for 
Castel Vawr. It is grand, isn’t it, and Enderlingis such a beast 
of a place, don’t you know ? ” 

Enderling, indeed, on the Middlesex bank of the Thames, 
chief country residence of Viscount Putne}^, damp, ugly, and 
dismal, was in truth a very undesirable abode as compared 
with majestic Castel Vawr. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


183 


CHAPTER XXXIV. _ 

SILAS IS BAFFLED. 

Again at Budgers's Hotel, in the stony retirement of steep 
and narrow Jane Seymour Street, Strand, hard by the leaden- 
colored Thames. Chinese Jack, jaunty in his shore-going 
clothes, as becomes the thriving merchant skipper, for a while 
out of employ, but with savings enough to justify a prolonged 
holiday, which landlady and waiters, boots and chambermaid, 
still firmly believe their freehanded captain to be, sits in his 
private parlor on the first floor smoking the never failing 
cigarette. He is not alone. On the opposite side of the 
steadily burning fire, for it is damp and raw and cold, now, on 
that autumn day, in that waterside neighborhood, sits Silas 
Melville, virtual head of the Private Inquiry Office of which his 
foreign partner is the nominal chief. The American has an 
uneasy look, and fidgets restlessly in his chair, as if there were 
something irritating to his nervous temperament in the stoical 
composure of Chinese Jack, and in the sickly odor of his 
opium-flavored cigarettes. 

“ And so,” said the tenant of Mrs. Budgers’s best apart- 
ments, after an interval of silence, “ and so you worked the 
oracle, Silas, and found it wouldn’t work ? ” 

The American winced as a satin- skinned horse winces 
under a sharp and unexpected cut of the whip. “ No man can 
command success, or insure it,” he said, peevishly. 

“ Why, no,” answered the former associate of mandarins, 
with provoking coolness, as he watched the thin blue spiral of 
smoke that curled upwards from between his lips. “ An old- 
country poet of the last century put the same sentiment, 
rather neatly, into verse. You forget, though, old boss, that 
you have, as yet, been talking riddles to me.” 

“ The whole affair,” returned Silas, earnestly, “ has been a 
riddle to me. You remember. Jack, how sanguine I was, and 
how interested, apart from any mere question of dollars, I felt 
in the case, most unusual to me, who, naturally, get used to 
regard all such transactions according to the debit and credit 
sides of the ledger, But, out in Massachusetts, where I wa§ 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


184 

raised, we have got a feeling still, that right is white, and 
wrong is black, we have, I kinder reckon.” 

“ Soon rubs oh, that sort of feeling, like the thin crust of 
silver from a cheap spoon, don’t it, comrade ? ” said Chinese 
Jack, as he lit another of his cigarettes. “ But you were 
always, in the Far West, of a high falutin turn, yet as sharp as 
any chicken-killing skunk that hangs about a settlement, where 
there was a red cent to be earned. But let us get at the truth 
of the thing. You were sure of getting good, reliable evidence, 
such as can be sifted in a court of justice, against the Bruton 
Street girl, and now you find that it won’t wash.” 

“ 1 wish you were lynched. Jack, with your sneers ! ” broke 
out the American angrily. “ Here we are, in a hole. Money 
spent, time lost You’re not a Croesus, I guess, and Time, to 
quote our Anglo-Saxon proverb, is cash to you ; and yet there 
you sit and puff at your atrocious cigars, as if you were one 
of those Pawnees, Sioux, or Kiowas, whose ^rascally company 
you liked better than I did.” 

“ More finished gentlemen than my Red Indian acquaint- 
ances I should scarcely care to be likened to,” was the good- 
humored answer of Chinese Jack ; “ and I have known those 
calumets of theirs to be quietly smoked at the death-stake. 
Well, well, Silas, how fared you ? If you, with your sharp wits, 
were foiled, the puzzle must have been past solving.” 

“ Of course,” said the Private Inquirer, “ my first and best 
reliance, the trump card in the game we were to play, was 
Madame de Lalouve — Countess, as she calls herself — and at 
the Russian, Austrian, Italian Embassies, they know her by 
that name,” added Silas, more respectfully to the absent 
foreign lady. 

“ Nothing like you republicans for valuing a title, even if 
continental,” remarked Chinese Jack. “ What did you screw 
out of the Countess ? ” 

“ Nothing,” was the short answer, as the New Englander’s 
head dropped despondently upon his breast. He lifted it again, 
and stroked, with one lean, pliant hand, his long chin, while 
his quick, restless, sloe-black eyes scanned the imperturbable 
face of Chinese Jack. “Do you know, mate,” he said, in a 
changed voice, “ that it has often struck me that you knew 
more of that foreign woman than you cared to tell.” 

“ Then you were wrong,” was the indolent answer of the 
English adventurer ; “ for I am as ready to tell you what I 
know of Louise de Lalouve as of any woman I ever studied. 
She is as deep as a well, and as treacherous as a quicksand. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. j 

That she has a right to her title, I believe. That she kno> 
some influential people, I am sure. Of course, she is in the 
thick of this plot. Of course, she wants to feather her nest 
pretty warmly out of the pickings of the Leominster case. So 
do poor outsiders like you and me. Well, you tried her ? ” 

“ Yes, I did,’’ answered Silas Melville. “ But it seemed to 
me. Jack, as if the woman merely treated me as a cat does, 
that is ready to bring the dagger-pointed claws out of the 
velvet sheath whenever caprice dictates. She heard all I had 
to say for myself as politely as though I had just been intro- 
duced to her at Saratoga, and Well, then, there was an end 

of it.” 

“ If you expected her to work for nothing ” said Chinese 

Jack, languidly. 

■“ But it was nothing of the sort,” interrupted the American. 
‘‘ I took it on myself to make offers — magnificent in amount — 
on account of Lady Leominster. I knew, of course, through 
my scouts, that the Countess had been in communication, more 
or less, with Her Ladyship, though I am certain, since I have 
early intelligence, that she never once passed the gates of 
Leorainster House. But, in spite of all I could urge, threaten, 
promise, she was as impracticable as if she had been of stone, 
instead of flesh and blood.” 

“ They called her the Sphinx yonder — haven’t you heard of 
her Egyptian nickname ? You can’t bribe a Sphinx, or bully 
one,” dreamily rejoined Chinese Jack. 

“ If you smoke that poison as you do, you’ll lose the num- 
ber of your mess some day. Jack,’ snapped out Silas Melville. 
“ Well, to cut a long story short, I could make nothing of that 
odious woman, who, I am sure, holds the threads of the con- 
spiracy in her hands. I suppose she has gone over to the other 
side ; and if so, be certain that perjury wj^ be rampant when 
the trial takes place at Marchbury. Well, I went down to 
Wales, and laid siege to Castel Vawr, to the servants’ hall and 
stillroom at least, for weeks, and — I must say, mate, that your 
British helps do whip the world for stolid, out and out aggrava- 
tion.” 

Chinese Jack tossed away his half-finished cigarette. “ 1 
should have betted on you, Silas,” he said genially, “ in such a 
trial of wits as that. Grant that maids are pert, and gigantic 
footmen supercilious, with a stranger who asks questions. You 
know the world too well not to appreciate the virtue of a golden 
key for unlocking the tongue.” 

“ I tried silver, and I tried gold,” said the American rue* 


ONE EALSE, EOTN E A TR, 


ia6 

iiully ; “ and beer, which my experience points out as the most 
magic mode of loosening padlocked lips among working-folks 
in this effete old country. But at last it dawned upon me that 
the pump wouldn’t work, not because the mechanism wanted 
oiling, but for want of water. Even among the stable servants 
Welsh to a man — and I had down a fellow of ours from Lon , 
don, formerly a groom, and who hailed from Llangollen, to 
worm information out of them — nothing could be learned.” 

“ Servants, as a rule, see more and hear more than masters 
and mistresses bargain for,” was Chinese Jack’s comment. 

“ I tell you, these did not,” retorted Silas vehemently, as 
he clenched his supple hands and scowled. “ If I failed with 
the Frenchwoman, it was because she saw her way to a better 
market. But as for those lackeys and waiting-women at Castel 
Vawr, the truth of their reticence is, that they had nothing to 
tell. The young Marquis, after his marriage, and before the 
doctors sent him off to Egypt, to die there, brought his girl-wife 
to the castle for just a few days ; but even then her sister was 
with her. The servants declared, with every appearance of 
sincerity, that, except when the two weje dressed differently, 
they never could be certain, so wonderful was the likeness, not 
only in face and figure, but in manner and gesture. Then, too, 
the young ladies had a pride, as twin-sisters often have, in 
dressing alike ; and the Marchioness, I was told, was averse to 
wearing jewels because Miss Carew had but cheap trinkets for 
her ornaments, so that even in that short time mistakes were 
often made — and laughed at, below stairs. There was a con- 
fidential sort of maid, a steady, well-spoken young person, one 
Mary Ann Pinnett, who went with Lady Leominster to 

Egypt — ” 

“ And what said Miss Pinnett ? Her testimony might have 
been better wort^ having than that of the rest,” interrupted 
Chinese Jack. 

“No doubt it might ; but there, again, there was a vexa- 
tions disappointment awaiting me,” said the Private Inquirer, 
with a crestfallen air. “ All that her former fellow-servants 
could tell me was that Pinnett, who was rather a favorite with 
her mistress, had suddenly quitted Lady Leominster’s service 
in London, just before the Marchioness and Lady Barbara went 
down to Wales, and that nobody knew what had become of 
her.” 

“ Umph ! ” muttered Chinese Jack. “ Rats run from a fall- 
ing house ; but I never heard that maid-servants were gifted 
with so prophetic an instinct. Queer for an abigail in receipt 


OME FALSE, BOTH FATE, 


1S7 

of good wages and perquisites to throw down the apron of 
office, and scuttle from a capital place ; unless, indeed, some 
pair of diamond earrings, some unconsidered trifle of a ruby 
brooch had got lost, as tiresome brooches and earrings some- 
times 

“ No, no ; not a bit of it.” broke in Silas, “ The young wo- 
man bore an excellent character to the last and ; and my lady 
was sorry to part with her — something about a father dying, in 
Lowestoft or Yarmouth, was, I believe, the excuse for her 
sudden departure ; but, though I tried the Norfolk papers and 
the local superintendent of polide, Mary Ann Pinnett could 
not be traced, and did not come forward, in response to my 
advertisements. And with her, my last hope for the moment 
seems to be gone.” 

A curious light came into Chinese Jack’s glittering eyes. 
“ Still hold to your opinion, old boss,” he asked, after a pause, 
that the true gold is at Castel Vawr, the counterfeit in Bruton 
Street .? ” 

“ I do, most positively,” was the dogged reply of the Ameri- 
can, as he rose from his chair. “ I cannot prove it, as I had 
hoped ; but it is for the enemy, at any rate, to establish her 
claim. As for us two ” 

“ Why,” said Chinese Jack, as he and his former partner 
shook hands, “ we had better, at all events, suspend operations 
for the present. Well, good-bye.” And so they parted. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MAN AND WIFE. 

Lowndes Place, Eaton Square, is a very respectable, and 
indeed fashionable place of residence ; but, as regards its out- 
look and general surroundings, it is a little dull. The square 
of which it is an adjunct is so far off that ingenuous country 
cousins wonder, sometimes, what can be the connection be- 
tween the two. The very houses have a slack-baked look, as 
if the stucco were damp and raw, and organ-grinders, fern- 
sellers, and noisy vendors of hearthstones and Bath-bricks, 
working-cutlers, and ballad-singers, riot there unchecked by the 
police. Yet the rents and the rates in Lowndes Place, Eaton 


i88 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

Square, are believed to be high, and the houses are tenanted 
by occupiers of a very superior description — retired Indian 
generals, junior partners in West End banks, fundholders, and 
married Civil Servants of Her Majesty’s government. Only 
at No, 6, could furnished apartments be found, and at the door 
of No. 6, with the knocker raised in his right hand, yet hesita- 
ting to knock, stood tall, lithe, and sun-bronzed Chinese Jack. 

It was very rare for Chinese J ack to hesitate. He did so 
now, and there was something significant in his attitude as he 
thus stood, keeping the knocker poised between his deft, strong 
fingers, as though it were a blazing linstock, one touch of which 
would fire a train of ready gunpowder and blow up the maga- 
zine. Standing so near the door that he was himself screened 
from observation on the part of any person who might be peer- 
ing from the windows, the lately returned exile took a compre- 
hensive survey of the aspect of Lowndes Place. “ About the 
last sort of nook,” he muttered to himself, under the shelter' of 
his thick moustache, “ in which one would expect to find a for- 
eigner domicled. And therefore, as things always do turn out 
contrary to what one expects, here she lives. But Louise was 
always an enigma, even to me — even to me,” he added, softly, 
and with a curious sort of smile on his flexible lips. 

It may be remembered that when Chinese Jack, or Captain 
Rollingston, as it pleased him to be called, paid his first visit to 
the Private Inquiry Office and intrusted Silas Melville with the 
task of discovering the whereabouts of Countess Louise de La- 
louve, and, by proxy of one of his satellites, dogging her foot- 
steps through London, he had spoken of the first part of the 
enterprise as an easy one. Madame de Lalouve had not just 
then any especial motive for concealing her address, while she 
was pretty certain to be heard of at the Russian Embassy. 
That she lived in Lowndes Place had been ascertained long 
ago. But this was the first time that Chinese Jack had deemed 
it expedient or prudent to present himself in person on her 
doorstep. After a brief pause, he knocked. The door was 
opened by a stout man, dressed in black, wearing a white 
cravat, and with “ butler ” written as plainly on his broad face 
as if it had been tattoed there in Roman characters. Retired 
man-servants who marry the housekeeper, and do not set up 
in a public-house, are pretty sure to let lodgings and to play 
henceforth at being the attached family retainers of the birds 
of passage who roost beneath their roof. “Madam,” said the 
landlord of No. 6, “ is at home, I think. What name, sir, shall 
I say?” 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


189 

You had better say a gentleman from abroad,” returned the 
visitor, speaking with a slightly foreign accent. “ Or, stay,” 
he blandly added, as he saw a shade come over the ex-butler’s 
brow, for nothing so much arouses suspicion in a Londoner’s 
breast, especially if a servant, as any hesitation as to giving a 
name, “ stay — you had better announce me, at once, as the 
Chevalier Rollingston. Madame knows me de longue main^ and 
my appearance will be a pleasannt surprise.” 

The ex-butler made a butler’s bow, and proceded the 
visitor upstairs. Chinese Jack was careful to follow quickly 
on his heels. What he had schemed for was to obtain the 
interview he sought without parley and delay, or possible 
stubbornness on the part of his hostess. Once he got in, 
he could trust to his own well practised skill to become 
master of the situation. And now he should get in, and what 
was more, his entrance would really be as sudden as though, 
like a fiend on the stage, he could have risen though a trap, 
encompassed by a lurid glow of red or blue fire. He knew per- 
fectly well that the landlord could never pronounce the name 
of the Chevalier Rollingston, mouthed as it had been with ultra 
Gallic oiliness of diction, and would content himself with 
uttering some conventional parody on the mysterious sounds. 
So it proved. Madame de Lalouve was writing at a side-table. 
She lifted her head as the landlord opened the door and 
murmured something unintelligible. A moment more, and the 
door was closed, and Chinese Jack stood, bowing with grave 
politeness, in the middle of the room. 

Madame de Lalouve was surely well used to the reception of 
visitors, even if unexpected visitors. Nor had Countess Louise 
any excuse to plead on the score of deficient toilet. The Russo- 
Frenchwoman was always dressed for the occasion. If her 
tighly fitting costume of olive green velvet and olive leaf 
colored gray silk, did not come from the ateliers of Mr. Worth, 
it was at least cut on Worth’s lines, and by some pupil of that 
illustrious man milliner. Her heavy black braids of hair were 
draped in statuesque fashion around her grandly shaped head. 
She wore few ornaments, but all were rich and solid. Altogether, 
she was a superb specimen of a woman of rank, of sense, of the 
world, and as such had made a profound impression on the 
minds of the butler landlord, and the housekeeper landlady, of 
No. 6 Lowndes Place, Eaton Square. 

“ Demon — wretch — ^from what fiery pit have you come, 
hateful man to vex me ! ” exclaimed the Countess in queerest 
medley of languages, not as the words have been set down here, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


J<)0 

but with a vehement intermingling of French, English, German, 
which testified to the confusipn of the speaker’s wits. The 
Sphinx, in Egypt, Naples, Monaco, Paris, had been renowned 
for her strong nerves. They were shaken now. Chinese Jack 
grimly scored the first advantage to his own side in the struggle. 
But he knew the world, better than the cleverest woman can 
know it, and he knew her. 

“ My dear,” he said, quite affably, “ here am I — come back 
to you. After so many trials aud sufferings, so much of the 
ups and downs of life, here, we are again, reunited, never to be 
sundered more.” Chinese Jack spoke in French, and his 
accent was so Parisian, and his grammar so faultless and his 
manner so declamatory, that Parisians themselves would have 
taken him for an actor at a mihor theatre, such as the Odeon, 
perhaps. — “A husband is a husband,” he added, after a 
pause. 

Madame de Lalouve gathered herself up, like a serpent 
about to strike. “ Wretch, monster, traitor, demon ! ” she 
hissed out, showing her white teeth like a she panther, while 
her right hand, like that of Lady Macbeth, clutched an airy 
dagger. 

Chinese Jack surveyed her with unruffled composure. With 
her, of course, it was a bout of nerves, such as these sensitive 
Frenchwomen always have when a disagreeable thing occurs. 
Had she been a slim, wasp-waisted little woman, of course she 
would have sunk shrieking into a chair, and kicked with her 
high heeled shoes at the floor, for ten minutes or so. As it 
was, she looked as though she wanted to bite, and as though 
she would like to stab him. Chinese Jack had had experience 
of those who really tried both methods, but he had wrested 
the dagger away in one case, and avoided the teeth in the other. 
Here was a civilized foe, to be managed otherwise. “ My poor 
Louise,” he said gently. 

The adventurer was very well dressed. He was no longer 
the merchant captain whom Mrs. Budgers of Jane Seymour 
Street was pr. ud to lodge. His clothes were as well made as 
any Bond Street tailor could make them for a valued customer. 
Gloves, hat, necktie, cane, and trinkets were such as might befit 
a man of fashion and of taste. Chinese Jack, knew women too 
well to neglect anything which a fair outside and the semblance 
of prosperity might insure. Madame de Lalouve seemed to 
have eyes for nothing, but his face, yet he was perfectly con- 
vinced that she had criticised the cut of his coat and the style 
of turc^uoisc’he^ded scarf pin, Presently she spoke, with a 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 19 1 

kind of sob, but more coherently. How, how, ” she asked, 
“ had he dared to present himself before her, after his base, 
vile, odious, and perfidious conduct. Did he not know that she 
hated him ? ” 

“I know nothing of the sort, my dear Louise,” answered Chi- 
nese Jack, with unruffled urbanity. “ You are an ill-used angel, of 
course — so are all of your charming sex — and I am a monster. 
Yet I am your husband, my love ; and husband and wife should 
pull together, especially when there is so big a fish to haul 
ashore as the fortune to be made out of this Leominster business. 
Nay, never open those fine eyes, my dear, as if I had astonished 
even you. When there is so much to get, of course there are 
many fingers in the pie. But you and I, between us, might 
secure the daintiest and most toothsome morsel. Yes, I, too, 
as well as yourself, have a hankering for the flesh pots of Egypt, 
or at least for the harvest to be repaid by those who were on 
board the good ship Cyprus, homeward bound, when Countess 
Louise and her interesting young friends were passengers.” 

“ You were not on board of her,” said the Countess decisively 

“ Wasn’t I ? ” retorted Chinese Jack, with his peculiar smile, 
and with a flash of those glittering eyes of his, at sight of which 
even Madame de Lalouve winced. “ That remains to be proved 
when I give evidence at Marchbury assizes. Yes, I was there. 
Come, Countess, I know what I know, and you know what you 
have done, and very clever of you too, I also am mixed up in' the 
affair, and I begin to feel as though, hitherto, I had made a 
mistake in backing the side I did. The gold-mine, I suspect, 
is in Bruton Street, not at Leominster House ; or you, Louise, 
would not have espoused what seemed at first a beaten cause.” 

“ I am for truth — and the right,” sententiously answered 
Madame de Lalouve, opening her eyes very wide. 

“ Still the same Louise as ever,” said Chinese Jack, with a 
light laugh. Come, come, my dear, you and I are people of 
the world, and need not, when alone together, declaim to the 
gallery, as French actors say. Injured innocence is all very 
well when there is a fortune to be made by befriending it, and 
iniquity is hateful when niggard of blackmail. Allons f it must 
be peace or war between us two, and for both our sakes, it had 
better be a strict alliance, offensive and defensive. Let us sit 
down, and talk coolly.” 

A wicked man has this much advantage over a wicked 
woman, that he usually sees, as it were, not merely through 
but round her, and surveys her position from a loftier stand- 
point. He is benefited, too, by the masculine habit of speaking 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


192 

out, instead of suppressing a portion of what he would fain say, 
as custom and timidity induce women to do. And then 
Madame de Lalouve, fearless in general, had always been a 
trifle afraid of her husband, the only man who seemed to read 
her like a book. So, somewhat to her own surprise, she obeyed, 
and reseated herself, while Chinese Jack drew up his chair, and 
soon this strange couple were chatting on friendly terms. 

The conversation of Chinese Jack and of Madame de 
Lalouve turned almost exclusively on business matters, and« 
had reference to the Leominster case and the disputed identit^l 
of the two sisters. After a little while, during which the 
Countess devoted herself to ascertaining that her long-lost 
husband really did know something beyond what mere rumor 
might have told him, of the affair in hand, the talk of the lately 
reunited pair became confidential, and almost cordial. 

“ Malin, who would have dreamed that you, of all the men in 
the world, should have been behind the boat, when Mademoiselle 
Cora and I discussed our little projects, so guilelessly, on the 
wet deck of the Cyprus^ on the morning after the storm ! Had 
I but caught a glimpse of you on board, rely ‘ on it, I should 
have redoubled my precautions,” said madame, wdth playful 
reproach. 

“ My bare feet made no noise, and my turban and my garb 
constituted a disguise that few, with eyes less piercing than 
yours, my Louise, could have penetrated. You are sure about 
the proof that you have hinted at to me, and which I too, as 
you are aware, can confirm by evidence within the reach of 
none but myself now living? ” 

“Yes, I am quite sure,” said Madame de Lalouve ; “and, 
in addition to this, I have — here under this roof, here in this 
very house, the lady’s maid who accompanied Miladi and her 
sister to Egypt, and returned with them to England.” 

“ A lady’s-maid, especially a discharged, one” began 

Chinese Jack, shaking his head in disparagement. 

“ She was not discharged — she voluntarily, at my persuasion, 
gave up service at Leominster House, and came to me,” said 
the Countess, a little nettled. “ Eive hundred pounds, which I 
have promised, are as a dream of untold riches to her, who 
wants to marry some one she knows, and set up a shop. Rely 
on it, she can be very useful at the hour of need.” 

“ And you really believe the tenth of a million, or anything 
like that enormous sun, will be forthcoming, in the event of 
success ? ” asked Chinese Jack half carelessly. 

Of that madame was quite convinced, Sir Pagan’s sister 


OMR FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


193 

in Bruton Street was spendidly generous by nature. And she 
would keep her word. 

“ With such a sum as that, my own Louise, and your knowl- 
edge, and mine, of financiers, Jewish and Christian, and of the 
world, del / how you and I could play on the Bourse of Paris, 
and the Stock Exchange of Lonnon, as on the keys of a piano,’ ’ 
said this model husband, as he kissed his wife, and took his 
leave. “ Here is my card,” he said, as he put it into her hand; 
“ Budgets Hotel is but a mean place, and as you observe, I am 
the Capitaine, and not the Chevalier. Rollingston, as I told you 
cherie, when I was a bachelor, was my mother’s name, and I 
bear it now. My true name, which is yours. Countess, we will 
keep dark, if you please, till the trial comes on, or the money is 
earned. And so, my sweet, 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE MOUNTAIN PICNIC. 

The Mountain Picnic, long projected, and of which some of 
the ladies at New Hatch had prattled as of a dangerous expe- 
dition into Wild Wales, at last came off. It had been delayed 
for some time by the uncertainty of the weather. Atlantic 
winds have it for their mission to convoy black rain-clouds ; 
and blue peaks, and sharp saddle-backs, and curved corries 
fringed with dwarf-oaks and feathery ash-trees, ivy-grown, have 
a knack of attracting a downpour. But at length there came 
three glorious days, worthy of the Italian climate at its best, 
and all the preparations were made for an al-fresco banquet at 
Glyn Llewelyn. A lovely spot was this, high up on the moun- 
tain-side, yet accessible by an excellent road, girdled in by 
rocks, shaded by rowan-trees and hazel and alder, with its tink- 
ling stream bordered by maiden-hair ferns and rare mosses, its 
tiny tarn, and a distant view of the waterfall of Gwent Pistyll, 
a puny cascade compared with Alpine or Norwegian cataracts, 
but respectable in Wales, and with Tor Coch and Combe Dhu 
rising in their sullen majesty overhead. All the landscape, all 
in sight, crag and peak and tableland, formed part of the Leo- 
minster estate. The red rocks of Tor Coch and the gloomy 
heights of Combe Dhu were just as much a part of the Castel 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


194 

Vawr property as were the fat cornlands and rich green pas- 
tures on the English, or, according to local parlance, the Saxon 
side of the March. 

Sir Timothy Briggs was anxious still, in spite of the fine 
weather, which was enough for his more sanguine guests ; just as 
captains of New York ocean steamers are miserable until they 
are round Cape Race, and safe from blinding fogs, drifting ice- 
bergs, and headlands of ruthless granite. Sir Timothy felt as 
if his reputation as a successful entertainer very much de- 
pended on the manner in which this particular festivity should 
go off. It was very late in the autumn for a picnic, certainly ; 
but then the weather was remarkably warm, as it is often warm, 
at unseasonable times, in Wales, where the breath of the Gulf 
Stream tempers the bleakness of the air. Yet Welsh weather 
is fickle to a proverb. Sir Timothy was always tapping and 
scrutinizing his barometer in the outer hall ; but the aneroid, 
like its master, appeared to be puzzled by the caprices of the 
Cambrian climate. Nor did his native gardeners and stable- 
men settle his doubts, when he sounded them as to the future. 
“ It is a clever day, quite, Sir Timothy, if she stops so,” was all 
that he could wring from the Ancient Britons around him. 

Yet the carriages, a handsome array of them, set merrily 
off from New Hatch, sweeping swiftly between the dense nut- 
hedges on the English side of the border, and climbing the 
well-made road, that ran, steeply but smoothly, up the Welsh 
hillsides, with their crofts and fences of dry stone and wattled 
cottages, and patches of oats growing high aloft among the 
rocks, and being tardily reaped, until at last the scenery grew 
wilder, more rugged, and more picturesque, and Tor Coch, like 
a natural fortress, with red turrets and battlements flaming in 
the sun, rose up resplendent ; while the sable loftiness of 
Combe Dhu frowned on the intruding pleasure-seekers. There 
was a little vapor hanging stealthily, as it were, about the ra- 
vines and wooded hollows of Combe Dhu ; but otherwise, not 
a cloud was to be seen. The blue sky overhead might have 
been Tuscan or Roman, so bright and unsullied was its spot- 
less azure. There was hardly a breath of wind. Far off, on 
the distant summits, here and there, a red-berried mountain- 
ash might be seen to toss its boughs, now and then, as.if a gust 
had passed by ; but the air was warm and balmy. 

“ How charming — how delicious ! ”• — “ We are fortunate, in- 
deed, in our day.” — “Your own weather. Lady Juliana.”— 
“ You are always lucky, I think. Sir Timothy.” SUch were the 


ONE EaLSE, both EAlR. 


195 

coomg and complimentary comments of several of the ladies of 
the party from New Hatch. 

Sir Timothy, who had grown suspicious, during his residence 
on the Border, looked askance at the filmy curtain that clung 
to the hollows and bushes of Combe Dhu, and, remembering 
previous disappointments, sincerely wished the day might end 
without spoiling of dainty hats and damage to elaborate toilets, 
and complexions more artificial still. 

At last, just before Glyn Llewelyn was reached, a turn in 
the rocky road revealed the Leominster carriage, with the well- 
known liveries, and following it, a couple of breaks or fotirgons, 
laden with servants and the materials of good cheer. For there 
are picnics, and picnics some of them, perhaps the blithest and 
the happiest, very scantily provided with creature-comforts, and 
rough as to accommodation ; others, of which the commissariat 
arrangements leave nothing to be desired, but which may or 
may not be really mirthful merry-makings. On this occasion, 
we may be sure that only too bountiful preparations had been 
made, when two such caterers as Sir Timothy Briggs and Lady 
Barbara Montgomery had undertaken to labor for the common 
weal. And this would be a white-day in the memory of many 
a poor crofter’s family, to whom the fragments of the feast af- 
forded a luxurious treat, by contrast to the goats’ milk and oat- 
cake of everyday life. From high-lying hovels, the thatch of 
which needed to be kept in place by great stones, because of 
the furious winds that so often prevailed, and from huts that 
nestled in gorges of the hills, appeared a troop of juvenile rus- 
tics, children, some shepherd lads and sheep-tending lasses, 
the rest barefooted very often, eager to carry a basket, or tO' 
fill a pail at the brook ; or, more shyly, to present a tuft of wild- 
flowers ; but all with hungry eyes, meekly expectant of elee- 
mosynary remains of pies, and residues of joints, and half-eaten 
fowls, and bottles of wine half-empty, and white bread, to carry 
home with them. 

One picnic is, after all, very much like another in some re- 
spects, and especially when it takes place in keen mountain 
air and at a considerable distance from home. The guests are 
sure, like emigrants at sea, to be most unromantically hungry ; 
and so it proved on this occasion. The champagne corks 
popped like a crackling discharge of musketry at a Volunteer 
Review ; and the clatter of knives and forks, and the clink and 
clatter of plates and glasses, almost overpowered the dulcet 
strains of the music which it had been one of Sir Timothy’s 
bright ideas to provide. As it was the little orchestra had been 


Om FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


196 

established behind a thicket of rowan-trees and hollies, and the 
musicians blew and twanged their best ; while the owner of 
New Hatch felt as if, should the day, accoiding to the ambigu- 
ous dictum of his Welsh servants, remain “ a clever ” one to 
the last, the Glyn Llewelyn picnic would ever be an agreeable 
landmark in the memories of his visitors. 

The one member of the company who seemed sad and si- 
lent was the youthful mistress of Leominster. She could not 
attune her mind, with all its melancholy thoughts, to the con- 
cert pitch that came so naturally to the rest ; and towards the 
oonclusion of the meal, she contrived to slip away unperceived, 
and to ramble slowly down the rugged path that bordered the 
brook, until presently she reached a spot where, in the midst 
of a ring of rocks — of fantastic shape, some of them — was a 
circle of emerald turf, starred with dasies, and bordered by 
broom and (Iwarf hazels. A narrow path crossed this grassy 
arena, and disappeared at the angle of a red rock, thirty feet 
high, that presented some quaint likeness to a human form, 
and was locally known as the Old Shepherd. Here she seated 
herself on a mossy knoll, listening half-heedlessly, to the bab- 
ble of the mountain stream as it leaped, a thread of silver, from 
one dark pool to another, on its swift downward course from 
the highlands to the river and the sea. Very, very unhappy, 
now that she felt herself secure from the prying eyes, was the 
expression of her young face. There was wistful regret in her 
sad eyes, as, careless of what she saw, she turned them slowly 
from one object to another, almost as the blind do. It was 
plain that her thoughts were far away. 

“ It must go on, I suppose,” she murmured to herself 
dreamily — “ it must go on, this marriage, on which I have re- 
ceived congratulations, more or less sincere, since the first en- 
gagement was made public. I shall feel the safer ; and yet — 
ah, that I were back in Egypt again, with the tall reed-banks of 
the Nile around me, and the palms, and the blue lupine fields, 
instead of Welsh stones and Welsh heather ; and that she — and 

I But we cannot live our lives over again, or alter the past,” 

she added with a mournful smile ; and then grew pale and ut- 
tered a faint cry, as of alarm, as from behind the red rock 
called the Old Shepherd there suddenly appeared the figure of 
a man. Chinese Jack lifted his hat with ceremonious polite- 
ness. 

“ Forgive my awkwardness, my Lady Marchioness, if I was 
so unlucky as to startle you,” said the adventurer, as he drew 
near. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


197 

“ Why are you here ? ” asked the other, as she lifted her 
eyes to meet those bold ones that belonged to Chinese Jack. 

The man laughed. “ You ladies,” he said, in the strange 
tone which he was apt to use, and which perplexed his audi- 
tors as to whether he spoke seriously or not, “ might sometimes 
teach a lesson to diplomatists of the male ^ex, so admirably do 
you dispose of wearisome preliminaries. I will try to give a 
straightforward answer to your ladyship’s direct question. I 
am here, Lady Leominster,^because it is necessary that I should 
know whether it is to be peace or war — whether I am to be 
your champion, or to fight under the hostile flag. Either cause 
is good enough for a Dugald Dalgetty like myself.” 

“ Can you not leave me — can you not let me rest in peace ?” 
asked the lady piteously. 

Now, my Lady Marchioness,” expostulated Chinese Jack, 
in really the tone of an injured man, the suggestion is too 
unreasonable. It is not often that poor buccaneering fellows 
like your humble servant see such a prize before them, in these 
prosaic days, as that which shines before me now. I have no 
preference, no bias at all ; I am perfectly impartial. But I 
must, in obedience to the purest principles of political economy, 
sell myself to the highest bidder.” 

Something in the cynicism of the man’s speech, in his mock- 
ing voice and glittering eyes, galled the Marchioness into an 
outburst of anger. “ Wretch ! ” she exclaimed. “ I could al- 
most believe, as I listen to you, that I was hearkening to, and 
looking on, the Fiend himself ! How dared you ” — she hes- 
itated here, and her eyes drooped. 

Chinese Jack laughed with unperturbed good-humor. “ As 
for what I dare, my lady, Jack Rollingston has proved that be- 
fore to-day,” he answered ; “ and as for my being here now, it 
is motived by two causes, both cogent enough. The first is, 
that you are about to be married to Lord Putney. I wish you 
joy. But then the wedding will be so very soon, that it does 
not suit my plans to wait for it. It would make a difference, 
my lady. Were you not still Marchioness of Leominster, you 
would at least be Viscountess Putney. My lord has great in- 
fluence. It would be used on his wife’s behalf, and perhaps 
Jack Rollingston would be left in the lurch. The second is, 
that you have promised me nothing.” 

“You have had money,” said the girl wearily. 

“ What you call money. Lady. Leominster, I have had,” was 
the polite answer of Chinese Jack ; “a trifle, a flea-bite, from a 
inasculine standpoint ; though ladies, I am aware, dread part' 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


198 

ing with every sovereign, as though it stood between them and 
starvation. On the other side, a hundred thousand pounds — 
no beggarly alms flung to a beggar, but a fortune — awaits my 
acceptance. All rests with me. I am not a moral sort of man ; 
but it would save me trouble to deal with the party in posses- 
sion. For ten thousand more than I am already promised by 
the opposing party, I will make you as safe from your sister ” 

“ I refuse ! I will have none of your help ; I will buy none 
of your counsel, none of your aid!” was the almost sullen 
reply. 

Chinese J ack laughed gently. ‘‘ I have paid you, my lady, 
the compliment of the first offer,” he said mildly. “ But there 
is a storm brewing.” He pointed to the sky, over the blue of 
which a dim haze, streaked by filmy threads, had been drawn, 
while above Combe Dhu were massed formidable banks of 
cloud. “ I know my native mountains, outlaw and exile as I 
am,” continued the adventurer bitterly ; “ and every Welshman 
in your hire would tell you the same. Before long, there will 
be dazzled eyes and draggled gowns. Even those chattering 
geese, your guests, see the mischief coming, for I hear their 
silly voices above, as they seek your ladyship. Now or never! 
Am I to have the stake ” 

“ I refuse ! ” she answered, almost mechanically, like one 
who has learned a lesson by rote. 

“ Is that your last word ? ” demanded Chinese Jack, with a 
menacing frown. 

“ It is — it is ! But I hear my friends’ voices. Pray, 
leave me ! ” 

“ Certainly, my lady. But now I shall know what to do,” 
answered the adventurer ; and in a moment he had turned the 
corner of the red rock and disappeared ; while, an instant later, 
fluttering feminine apparel, and choice hats, and huge embroi- 
dered parasols, became visible on the rocky pathway abov.^, as 
Lady Flora and Lady Celia, and' the Honorable Emily Tolle- 
mache, escorted by as many gentlemen, came hurrying down to 
express the alarm of the company in general, and of Lady Bar- 
bara and Lord Putney in particular, at the disappearance of 
the lady whom Chinese Jack had but that moment left alone. 
“ And especially with a dreadful thunderstorm coming on, dear 
Lady Leominster, and in such a place ! Poor mamma, you 
know, dreads thunder so awfully.” And indeed the Dowager, 
who feared most things, was almost as much afraid of lightning 
as she was of importunate creditors. 

The Honorable Algernon March was also of opinion that 


ONE EAlSEi BOTH FAIR, 


199 

there was rio time to be lost. “ I, for one. never expected a 
ducking ; but in Wales here, as in Lorn, or Skye, you can be 
sure of nothing,” he said. 

, The young lady allowed herself to be led away by her 
friends, as passively as a strayed sheep permits itself to be 
brought back to the flock, “ I was foolish to ramble as [ did,” 
she said, with a wan smile. When the place of the picnic was 
reached, much bustle prevailed. Horses had been hastily 
bitted, traces made fast, and curb-chains linked, and carriage 
after carriage advanced to take up its load ; while those who' 
were ill off for wraps looked enviously at neighbors better pro- 
vided with shawl and mantle, for barouches give scanty protec- 
tion in such a downpour as was momentarily expected. 

Of course Lord Putney was ready to place his affianced in 
her carriage. “ Truant I ” he whispered tenderly, as he pressed 
the little hand that lay in his. “ How uneasy your absence has 
made me, dearest ! I was about to scale ” 

But before Lord Putney could enumerate the mountaineering 
exploits which he had been prepared to undertake for the re- 
covery of his missing betrothed, a blinding flash, that made the 
horses swerve and rear, was followed by a deafening crash that 
seemed to shake the very earth, while every splintered rock 
sent back the deep diapason of the thunder. The wind 
shrieked. The heavy rain, mingled with arrowy sleet and 
jagged hailstones, came roaring down, as if in resentment on 
nature’s part for the recent frivolous invasion of her fastnesses. 
The storm had burst in its strength. This was no time for de- 
lay, no time for pretty speeches. Off dashed the carriages 
down the steep road, the drivers anxious enough, with their 
hats pulled down over their knitted brows, and coat collars 
turned up, peering through the blinding rain and gathering 
gloom, and keeping the frightened horses well in hand. Flash 
after flash, peal after peal, rang out and flared forth the symbols 
of elemental war ; while every brook and rivulet swelled, with 
hoarse roar, into a turbid torrent, that here and there overflowed 
the road, causing the hoofs and wheels to scatter froth-bells 
and peat-stained water as they went. It was a confused rout,, 
rather than an orderly retreat, guests, servants, musicians, 
snatching up what was nearest to hand, and scrambling in many 
cases for places in the vehicles, the impatient charioteers of 
which could scarcely restrain their scared steeds until the living 
load was in its place. On, on, through the drenching rain, the 
dazzling lightning, the growl of the thunder, and the scream .of 
the gale, sped the fugitive revellers, some making for Caste! 


Sod 


ome false, both faia\ 


Vawr, and the majority for Sir Timothy’s mansion of New 
Hatch, as fast as wheels could hurry them. It was a thing to 
be remembered for years to come, that mountain picnic, and 
its abrupt and inopportune ending. 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

THE FIRST PROOF 

I SHOULD have thought, I should, that I was capable of 
this, at my time of life, and after cracking many a harder nut, 
to my fancy, than this one. Four times I’ve been packed off 
to Paris, and given satisfaction in every case ; and there are 
old French friends of mine in the Rue Jerusalem who didn’t 
seem to think me quite a greenhorn. No more did my Yankee 
brother-officers, t’other side of the ocean, appear to consider 
me quite in the light of a beginner. And yet, what have I 
done, down here in Devonshire, in all these weary weeks, but 
pick my employer’s pocket and waste time ! The mugs of 
cider and the pints of ale that I have stood for chance custom- 
ers at wayside publics, vex a man who remembers that nothing 
came of it but the emptiest of babbling talk. And the women 
were as bad as the men, every bit, though I put in their window- 
panes cheap, and mended their broken china for nothing ; but 
what did I learn by it ! Birch would have the laugh against 
me, only he writes word that he has done no good in London, 
any more thau I have in these out of the way parts. Seems to 
me it’s about time for me to give it up, and go back to town 
and my regular duties in the Force. In this Carew case, my 
usual luck seems to have left me quite.” 

The soliloquist was a tall man, dressed in a slop suit of 
workman’s clothes, and wearing a shapeless hat of soft felt. 
Seated on the parapet of a small stone bridge which spanned 
one of the countless streams of well-watered Devon, he was 
smoking a short pipe of blackened clay. There was something 
of military bearing about the man, which indicated to an ob- 
server of average acuteness the old soldier, gone back to the 
peaceful occupations of civil life. And indeed Sergeant Drew, 
of the metropolitan detectives, was competent, as his comrade 
Inspector Birch had said of him in the chambers of Mr. Sterling 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


201 


the lawyer, to make an honest livelihood by more trades than 
one. In Devonshire, when sent down by Mr. Sterling to make 
inquiries in the neighborhood of the ancient seat of the Carews, 
which might throw light on the case, the sergeant had thought 
it better to adopt the character of a wandering glazier, who, 
being a handy man, and having also served his time in a join- 
er’s shop, was not above undertaking on low terms those jobs 
of repairing which in cottage homes and outlying farmhouses 
so often await, for months it may be, the arrival of some such 
roving mechanic. In that capacity, the experienced detective 
felt pretty sure of a welcome, with opportunities for gossip, 
wherever he went. 

Nothing but disappointment as yet had attended the ex- 
plorings of Sergeant Drew. He had mended broken windows, 
and repaired rotten sashlines, and put on deficient door- 
handles, in the dilapidated Hall of Carew itself ; but the care- 
takers to whom the great ruinous old house was left had ap- 
parently been selected from among the stupidest of the retain- 
ers of the decayed family, and had nothing to tell that was 
worth the hearing. Of course they recollected the two young 
ladies, the baronet’s sisters, but they had nothing particular to 
say about either, excepting that a grand wedding had taken 
place at Carew, when Miss Clare married that rich young lord 
Leominster. As for the former servants, some of them were in 
London, under Sir Pagan’s roof in Bruton Street ; but most had 
set up in other lines of life than domestic servitude, and were 
married and settled in out of the way hamlets, where the ser- 
geant, in his unobtrusive fashion, sought them out, but without 
much result for his labors. Nobody seemed to have a word to 
say worth listening to. 

Probably the shrewd policeman, when he took the mission 
upon him, had not made sufficient allowance for the dull, unin- 
quisitive character of the bucolic mind. At any rate, although 
by the exercise of his arts as glazier and carpenter, and by the 
genuine good-nature which he showed in attending to many a 
trifle not by any means connected with his ostensible handi- 
craft, he won much personal popularity, as a sort of serviceable 
Ulysses in humble life, he picked up no information that was 
likely to benefit the case of his employer’s client. Even the 
singular resemblance between Clare and Cora Carew, which 
had once been matter of local wonder, seemed to have almost 
faded out of the memories of the rustics with whom the ser- 
geant conversed, though, now and again, a flagging interest 
would revive in the recollection of some bygone mistake as to 


202 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


whether it were “ Miss Clare ” or “ Miss Cora ” who had done 
this or ordered that. 

“ There only was one person, since Lady Carew died, who 
really did know the two apart, and she must be main old now, 
since she left Sir Pagan’s service, on account of the rheumatics 
and wages overdue, the very year old Sir Fulford died,” said 
one woman less Boeotian than the rest. 

Skilful investigation elicited the fact that this was one Jane 
Dawson, who had been nurse to Lady Carew, had left her to 
be married, and had come back, an elderly widow, to be nurse 
to Clare and Cora. 

“A moorlander she was — and lived at Monk’s Hollow, 
beyond Charnbury, right in the heart of it ” — meaning Dart- 
moor — his informant had said. 

And now Sergeant Drew, his wallet of tools and his rack of 
window-glass on his shoulders, was trudging on foot along the 
rugged bridle-roads that led to Charnbury and Monk’s Hollow, 
as his last chance. 

The march to his destination, through the wild solitudes of 
Dartmoor, with its tors of naked stone cropping up at intervals 
above the rolling table-lands of endless heather, treacherous 
green mosses, and trickling streams, was not particularly pleas- 
ant, fine as was the steady weather of that mellow autumn. 
The sergeant had slept, as became a wandering glazier, not in 
the worst inn’s worst room, but in a humble chamber on the 
second floor of the sprawling public-house of Charnford, and 
unless a moorland storm should set in, he might reasonably 
count on reaching Charnbury, and being thence directed to 
Monk’s Hollow. Charnbury was reached at last ; and after a 
period devoted to rest and food, the detective set off for Monk’s 
Hollow, and found it, appropriately, in the shape of a deep 
dell, wherein, beside a brooklet, and among'st a labyrinth of 
holly-bushes, juniper, alder, and ash, stood a dozen of thatched 
tenements and two farmhouses, clustering around a wooden- 
steepled church, close to which still were visible certain frag- 
ments of gray masonry, ivy-clad, once a portion of some Cister- 
cian cell. Mrs. Dawson was easily found. She lived by her- 
self, in one of the thatched and cob-walled tenements — so said 
a farming hind, across a gate, in answer to the sergeant’s in- 
quiry — “ that is, with only a slip of a granddaughter along wi, 
her.” 

Nurse Dawson — ^who was one of those pleasant-looking 
little old women whom we sometimes see in rural England, 
with soft wrinkled faces, that remind us of roasted apples, and 


ONE FALSE, BO TIL FA IE 


203 

with little beady eyes, that peered kindly at those who spoke to 
her — proved to possess a genuine interest in her nurslings ; in 
“ Sweet Miss Blanche Prideaux, my Lady Carew, when I passed 
into service with Sir Fulford,” first and foremost, and then 
“Miss Clare” and “Miss Cora.” “I loved Miss Clare the 
best,” said the simple old soul. “ Miss Cora had her tricks, 
and was wayward, and would plague a poor old body like me. 
But dear Miss Clare was all good, like an angel.” 

On this occasion, the sergeant was able to drop his assumed 
character of a glazier, and to announce himself, not precisely 
as a policeman, but as a person intrusted with a mission, much 
to the ultimate advantage of Miss Clare that was, and a good 
deal, too, he hinted, to that of the giver of useful information. 
The point to be cleared up was, which was which, of the two 
young ladies. 

“ I never saw either of them,” said the detective frankly ; 
“ but this I know, from the London lawyer who has sent me 
here — a gentleman, Mrs. Dawson, who is very liberal, and 
minds a sovereign no more than you or I would a sixpence — 
that they are in two different places now, and there does de- 
pend very much on knowing one from the other. So I thought 
you, as a nurse of theirs ” 

“ I do know which is which, better even than their own 
dear mother, my lady, my own dearest Miss Blanche, could 
have known one of her pretty ones from the other ; for my 
lady was seldom in the nursery, being ill and pining *, and I 
was always there till they grew so tall, and my lady was dead, 
and Sir Fulford dead too, and Sir Pagan having so little for 
himself, and all the servants without wages ” 

It cost come trouble to bring nurse Dawson to the point of 
her evidence, which Sergeant Drew immediately reduced to 
writing, and which ran as follows : 

“ There is a mark about my Miss Cora by which I could 
swear to her anywhere. And this is the history of it. On that 
bitter cold winter’s morning of the christening day, with a storm 
of snow and rain driving down from the tors, I was dressing 
the dear young things in the new white embroidered baby- 
clothes, by candle-light ; and a candle — the nurse-girl, who was 
out of the room at the time, had struck it in carelessly — fell 
out of the candlestick, and burned the poor baby’s soft arm — 
Miss Cora’s arm, it was — ^just inside the lower part of the wrist. 
How the poor wee thing cried ; and how I kissed her, and how 
frightened I was ! But it never was found out, never — though, 
of course, the poor hurt innocent was crying — fractious, as 


204 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


they thought — near all day. Never did I mention that acci- 
dent to any living soul ; first, for fear it should get me into 
trouble — a natural fear, sir, for one in my station, and who 
knew what was owing to her betters ; and later on, my dear 
Lady Blanche being dead, and my other two grown up, I sup- 
pose I held my tongue because I had got to look on the candle 
business at something to be hushed up.^’ 

“Yes; I am quite certain it was to Miss Cora that the 
accident happened. And on Miss Corals wrist the mark was, 
last time I saw her, and won’t go, I reckon, till her dying day. 
A little, dull, bluish-white mark, most like a very young moon, 
like a sickle, but straighten My young lady. Miss Cora, I feel 
sure, never noticed it; nor yet did her sister, darling Miss 
Clare, for the mark was very small, and not disfiguring, and, 
except to a nurse’s eye or a mother’s, who knew how it came to 

be there But it won’t get me into trouble, sir, and bring 

me blame, after all these years, will it ” asked the old woman, 
tremblingly. 

Soothing assurances that no one would dream of blaming 
her for an inadvertence of so many years ago — allusions to the 
advantage of “ Miss Clare” — and the laying on the table of 
three golden sovereigns, persuaded the old woman, reluctantly 
and slowly, to affix her shaky signature to the written statement ; 
having secured which, the sergeant took his leave cheerily, and 
armed with his first proof, made the best of his way, on foot 
and in hired gigs, across stony Dartmoor, and so by railway to 
London. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

PREPARATIONS. 

Some weeks, few but busy, had elapsed since the disastrous 
termination of the picnic in the mountains, and the weather had 
now become decidedly of a wintry character. The blue Welsh 
hill peaks had put on their crests of spotless snow : and sharp 
and frequent frost made the hunting days in districts lying near 
the Cambrian border to partake a good deal of the nature of a 
lottery. At Sir Timothy’s ultra hospitable mansion, some 
changes had taken place in the muster roll of the numerous 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


20 $ 

guests on whose good will the owner of New Hatch relied for 
an accession to his social importance in the ensuing London 
season. The Dowager Countess of Mildborough, for instance, 
had found her chronic rheumatism so much aggravated by the 
keen air of the Welsh Marches, that even her camel like pa' 
tience had given way ; and she had insisted, to the disgust of 
her daughters, the Ladies Flora and Celia, in quitting herpres' 
ent luxurious quarters for cramped lodgings at Torquay, and 
the vicinity of a doctor in whom she believed. Other ladies 
had departed, and so had some of the young men ; but fresh 
arrivals had taken their places ; for the fame of Sir Timothy’s 
cellar, and Sir Timothy’s cook, and Sir Timothy’s preserves of 
pheasants, was too widely spread to allow of any fear lest his 
invitations should be neglected. Among the faithful who 
remained were, of course. Lord Putney, and his fidus Achates, 
the Honorable Algernon March, who was to be, in old fashioned 
parlance, my lord’s ‘ best man ’ at the coming ceremony, for 
which elaborate preparations were in progress. 

It was to be a grand wedding. Lady Barbara Montgomery 
and Lord Putney were of one mind in desiring that no expense 
and no trouble should be spared to celebrate the alliance be- 
tween two such distinguished Houses with proper pomp. There 
would be triumphal arches of oourse ; and much strewing of 
flowers, and oxen roasted whole, and casks of ale set abroach, 
and bonfires blazing on the hill tops when night should fall, 
their ruddy gleam contrasting with the fitful sparkle of the fire- 
works. These and the bell-ringing, and certain distributions of 
gifts to old and young, would compose the popular and outdoor 
part of the display. Within doors, the more aristocratic por- 
tion of the expected company were to be royally entertained at 
the castle. A very renowned purveyor of good cheer had been 
induced to come down personally from London to superintend 
the preliminaries of the wedding breakfast, and had pledged 
his reputation . that every delicacy not in season should figure at 
the banquet, and that the services of his experienced staff 
should be unstintedly impressed into the task of fest.d decoration 

The episcopal blessing on the nuptial rite would not be 
lacking. The Bishop of the diocese had promised to officiate 
at the ceremony, and was expected to stay a night or two at 
Castel Vawr — all that a hard working prelate could be supposed 
to spare from his multifarious duties. His Right Reverend 
Lordship was to be assisted by an ecclesiastic of a different 
grade, and who secretly considered himself as a far more im- 
portant personage than his titular superior in the hierarchy. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


Nobody, oui of a very limited clique, had ever heard of Bishop 
Jackson, ex-private tutor, ex-domestic chaplain, next a fashion- 
able preacher, and then a courtly canon, before he was suddenly 
pitchforked into a bishopric. Whereas every one had heard of 
that energetic Churchman, the Archdeacon, who dwelt within 
driving distance of the castle, and was indeed an old friend, 
and some said a former admirer of Lady Barbara. Archdeacon 
Crane, as an active and pugnacious member of the Church 
militant, had contrived to keep his name pretty constaritly be- 
fore the public ! and his pamphlets, and his contributions to 
magazine literature, and his fiery speeches at Congress and 
Conference and such new fangled gatherings, had earned for 
him much newspaper criticism not always laudatory. It was 
said of the Archdeacon that he rather liked to be abused, and 
beyond question controversy was his element, and the dust of 
battle fragrant to his nostrils as to those of Attila. No wonder 
that he despised his Bishop, who was certainly tame, and per- 
haps flaccid. 

That London court miliners, and those Parisian sisters of 
the craft who hold their heads higher still, had set deft fingers 
and cunning needles to work, was but natural. But it was 
whispered that the great M. Worth himself, the peerless arbiter 
of taste, who usually secludes his serene personality in the in- 
nermost recesses of Fashion’s Temple, had condescended to 
design the faultless wedding dress of so beautiful a bride as the 
1 iiowned of Leominster. That Lord Putney, the typical aris- 
tocratic old bachelor of town club life, should be about to be 
married at last, was even enough of itself to awaken interest. 
But that she, so young, so charming, so rich, should marry 
Lord Putney, of all imaginable bridegrooms, and that immedi- 
ately before her right to her position and her income was to be 
put to the sharp arbitrament of a trial at law, composed so fas- 
cinating a programme, that those who had not been asked — and 
their name was necessarily legion — to the mansion of Sir Tim- 
othy and Lady Juliana Briggs, envied' those who. were lodged un- 
der the roof of New Hatch ; while the disappointed daughters 
of the Dowager Countess of 'Mildborough, who, though never 
asked to be bridesmaids,had still counted that one wedding might 
lead to another, were very snappish at Torquay to female friends 
of inferior rank, and always spoke of Sir Timothy as vulgar, 
and Castel Vawr as a dreary old barracks. 

Lord Putney was the happiest of the happy. He gave him- 
self the oddest airs of being, as it were, a lamb led to the sac- 
rifice, and seemed sentimentally to mourn over his floral fetters 


FALS£, FOTh PAIR. 


207 

and to bewail the loss of his youthful freedom. But he was 
very proud of his position. His old heart could at least throb 
at the prospect that a lovely young wife would now be by his 
side, and then the very gossip that floated through the air as to 
her disputed station lent notoriety to him. 

And now Time, with scythe and hour glass, had swept on, 
and brought about the eve of the eventful marriage morn. At 
Castel Vawr, the few important guests had arrived. There was 
the Duke of Snov/don, farmer like, but estimable, and with an 
odd sort of -sense of his own great position that now and again 
lent weight to his words, and caused people to forget his home- 
ly features and slouching gait. There was the handsome young 
Duchess; and a younger brother of the Duke, Lord William 
Hill, of whom it may be said that he was eminently useful, al- 
ways there when required, and never in the way when not 
wanted — a model cadet, whose vocation in life it was to be 
younger brother to his Grace. Also arrived another visitor, 
Adolphus, present Marquis of Leominster, who wore his fire- 
new honors very meekly, but who had been chosen as the most 
appropriate person to give away the bride. And then there was 
the Bishop, who was almost as unused to his new mitre as poor 
Dolly Montgomery — long a butt of unrespective young wags 
in the club smoking room — to his new strawberry leaved coro- 
net, and who, like the Marquis, seemed tacitly to beg every 
one’s pardon for the lofty station to which he had been pro- 
moted. A pink faced prelate was Bishop Jackson, an emi- 
nently “safe” man, in ministerial language, and one whose dread 
of polemics was akin to the horror some men entertain of 
hydrophobia. Altogether, the party was complete, and every 
preparation for the happy day that was so soon to dawn had 
been made. To-morrow was to witness the espousals of the 
Right Hon. George Augustus Viscount Putney, and Clare, 
Marchioness of Leominster. All was ready ; and every heart, 
save one, beat lightly and hopefully in anticipation of the mor- 
row. 


20S 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE UNTYING OF THE IINOT. 

“A GENTLEMAN, Sir, and a lady — come up in a carriage — 
with another person — most anxious to see you, sir — late as it 
is.” 

Mr. Pontifex, in his Maida Hill villa, was in the habit of 
taking his ease, and of feeling as if he had left Black Care 
behind him in Lincoln’s Inn. His luxurious suburban abode, 
with its splendid conservatory and forcing-houses ; his garden, 
that in summer was gorgeous with color ; his fancy poultry , 
his fruit, that had won a prize ; his pigs, that had deserved 
“ honorable mention ” at the Agricultural Hall — seemed sacred 
from intrusion. He was a widower, very fond of his daughters, 
and liked his ease. Of course he sometimes brought up papers 
with him to look over quietly in his snug study ; but never had 
Erasmus Pontifex been plagued at Maida Hill by the visit of a 
client. 

“ What do they want, James ? ” demanded the master of the 
house, somewhat tartly. He seldom spoke petulantly to his 
tried and steady old servant, or, indeed, to the veriest lad who 
ministered to his piggeries and his pineries, for the eminent 
family solicitor was in domestic life indulgent. But he did feel 
it a little unreasonable that, at twenty minutes past eleven p.m., 
he should be tormented as to business. 

“ Foreign lady, sir, a Countess — and a gentleman, foreign, 
too, by the way he talks French with the lady — but it was she 
who asked to see you, sir — something about the great case of 
Lady Leominster — and the young person — very respectable— - 
is like a young person in service,” said James, who had very 
probably received a sovereign from the applicants for admis- 
sion, and was working out the amount of Cerberus’s sop. 

“ Show them in ! ” said Mr. Pontifex ; and obedient James 
ushered in three persons — a large foreign lady, neither old nor 
young, handsome, richly dressed, and of a grand presence ; a 
gentleman, also very well attired, whose sun-bronzed face and 
martial air might have caused him to be mistaken for a dashing 
and distinguished officer, had it not been for the roving, lawless 
look of his glittering eyes ; and a prim little creature of six-and- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR 


209 

twenty, very neat, very deferential. This, as Mr. Pontifex 
promptly guessed, was the maid of whom James had spoken. 

“ We come, Mr. Pontifex, on business,” said the gentleman 
composedly, and speaking English with a fluency that convinced 
the lawyer that he was confronted by a fellow-countryman. 
“ The Leominster case is on many tongues and on many minds 
just now. We are here at present to settle it.” 

“ To settle it ! ” returned Mn Pontifex, elevating his eye- 
brows in surprise. “ Are you aware, sir, that I act for Lady 
Leominster ? ” 

“ For her whom you call Miladi,” said the foreign lady. 

Again Mr. Pontifex arched his eyebrows. He did not much 
like the look of the foreign lady, fine woman as she was ; noi 
did he feel attracted towards the male visitor, with the 
buccaneer’s effrontery and the over bright eyes ; yet he felt it 
best to be civil. 

“ Please to be seated,” he said. “ You did not, I think, 
mention your names.” 

“ Mine is a short one— Vaughan,” was the business-like 
reply of the gentleman with the glittering eyes — Vaughan, 
by British law. I have often borne my mother’s name. It was 
Rollingston. She was an Honorable Miss Rollingston, who 
married my father, a Welsh clergyman. In right of her noble 
birth, and by continental practice, I have called myself the 
Chevalier Rollingston, and, as such, could be heard of at Em- 
bassies abroad. My father was Dr. Vaughan, rector of Dinas 
Vawr, the parish in which the castle stands. This lady is my 
wife. She is a Russian subject ; but bears the title — which she 
inherits from her father, a Count of the Holy Roman Empire 
— of the Countess Louise de Lalouve.” 

Mr. Pontifex, who had been hitherto very attentive, started 
now, and eyed the foreign lady as he would have eyed a rattle- 
snake that had somehow crawled into his house. 

Madame de Lalouve, who read the thoughts of the eminent 
family solicitor, smiled superior to this manifestation of repug- 
nance. “ We are here, my husband and I,” she said in her 
perfect English, but with that indefinable accent which betrays 
the foreigner, “ for business, Mr. Pontifex, not for sentiment. 
I anticipate your objection that you act for her whom people 
style the Marchioness, who is so soon to be the bride of Lord 
Putney — of her who thrones it at Castel Vawr. But you are a 
good man, sir, and honest. You would not knowingly champion 
an impostor,” 


210 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


“ If you malign my noble client, madame — there is a law of 
libel, madame,” said Mr. Pontifex, much flustered. 

“ My dear sir,” replied Chinese Jack, as his glittering eyes 
lit on the round dull eyes of the worthy little lawyer, and held 
them fascinated as is a bird by the gaze of a snake, “have a little 
patience. It is because we know you by repute to be incapable 
of bolstering up a rotten cause that we are here to-day. We 
want to make you see that, at the Marchbury trial, your client’s 
case must go over like a card-castle. But, if you please, there 
ought first to be a pledge on your part that the Countess, my 
wife, shall sustain no inconvenience on account of what she 
may freely reveal. Shall we speak, or wish you good-night, 
and resume the conversation after the verdict at Marchbury, 
Mr. Pontifex ? ” 

Mr. Pontifex said, guardedly, that so far as legal proceedings 
went, he should respect any confidential statement. 

“ In that case, Monsieur the Notary,” said Countess Louise, 
“ I will tell my tale, in reliance on the discretion, so well known, 
of him who listens. You are aware, sir, that I became acquainted 
with those two sisters, Miladi and Miss Carew, in Egypt, and 
came to England with them on board the Cyprus. Mademoiselle 
Cora, whose position was not assured, and whose thoughts 
were restless, envied the wealth and rank of her widowed 
sister. When people covet, the next step, if there be but a 
bold and shrewd adviser at the elbow, is often to steal. At first, 
timidly and vaguely, then more distinctly. Miss Carew conceived 
the idea of personating her sister, so unsuspecting, and of re- 
placing her as Marchioness. The wonderful resemblance 
between those twin-sisters, which puzzled all, made such a task 
easier than you would suppose. My ambitious pupil was shy 
at the first — often recoiled in horror; but the bait was too 
tempting. And at last, at Castel Vawr, she succeeded even 
more easily than ” 

“ Succeeded ! Do you mean to tell me, madame, that you 
maintain the present Marchioness to be a triumphant impostor 

— and that — that one ■ in Bruton Street ” cried out Mr. 

Pontifex, ruffling up his gray hair between his oustretched 
fingers. 

“ That one in Bruton Street is Clare Carew, widow of the 
late Marquis of Leominster,” retorted Chinese Jack. “The 
other is Miss Cora. The case lies in a nutshell. We are ready 
with the proofs. Here is the lady’s-maid who was with the Mar- 
chioness In Egypt. Here am I, who, as I talk all languages, 
and wore oriental garments, was made serang of the lascars on 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


211 


board the Cyprus, their native boatswain having died in hospi- 
tal. In that capacity I overheard the conversation on deck in 
which it was arranged that Miss Carew should personate her 
sister. But madame here can offer the best evidence of all. 
Let us take things in order. Here is Miss Pinnett, formerly 
in Lady Leominster’s service, if you please to question her. 
This is a sort of informal trial, after all.” 

“ Your name is Pinnett— what do you wish to say ? ” asked 
Mr. Pontifex. 

The young person of the name of Pinnett, who had been 
modestly seated on a chair in the background, here rose, and 
with a respectful air, placed on the table before the lawyer a 
crumpled note. “ I picked this up, sir, before daybreak,” she 
said, “ in Miss Carew’s cabin, on the morning of the dreadful 
storm at sea. It is in English, as you will see, and so I could 
read it. It is signed L. de L. The foreign Countess wrote it, 
and slipped it, I suppose, into Miss Cora's hand, while most 
were at their tears and prayers, in the danger of the terrible 
night. I am a Jersey person, and had made voyages, and so 
was less frightened, and could take notice. I thought it was 
odd that madame should ask Miss Cora to meet her on deck 
in such weathe r, so I resolved to follow Miss Cora.” 

Mr. Pontifex perused the brief note. — “ Your handwriting ? ” 
he asked' curtly, of Madame de Lalouve. 

“ Certainly,” was the reply, 

“ Good,” said the lawyer. But this does not show which, 
was which. — The witness can go on.” 

“ I knew the cabins from one another, sir,” said Pinnett, 
It was in Miss Carew's I found this, dropped by accident. 
When Miss Carew went on deck, I slipped up the stairs after 
her ; but thought it best to remain, hiding near the cabin 
hatch, while Miss Cora and madame were talking near the boat. 
A wild morning it was. I watched, but could not hear, being 
too far off, across the wet deck. Then a gentleman came up 
— Mr. Talbot — and I saw a very small square packet hastily 
given by the Countess to our Miss Cora. Miss Carew hid it 
away. I had only time to get down below, before Miss Cora 
came also, on Mr. Talbot’s arm. He did not know her, and 
called her “ Lady Leominster,” by mistake. I did not see 
what was in the packet — at least, not then.” 

Stop a moment ! ” cried the little lawyer now much excited, 
as he snatched up a sheet of paper and dipped his pen into an 
inkstand. “ I must make a note or two. Your name — Pin- 
nett. Christian name, if you please, and residence.” 


212 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


Mary Ann, sir,” answered the demure young person ; 
“originally of Lynn, sir, in the county of Norfolk ; now in ser- 
vice at 6 Lowndes Place, Eaton Square, with the Countess, 
Madame here.” 

Mr. Pontifex made his careful notes. “ Now, please go on, 
he said. “ I think your last words implied that on a later oc- 
casion you did find out what were the contents of the packet 
which you had seen handed by Madame de Lalouve to Miss 
Carew ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir,” answered Mary Ann Pinnett. “ In the 
Channel it was, the day before we landed at Southampton. I 
was engaged in packing the things of my lady the Marchioness, 
and the things of my lady’s sister Miss Cora Carew. Miss Cora 
was careless, and left the little bunch of keys — that she gener- 
ally kept to herself, as well as the other keys, that, as maid in 
charge, were always in my keeping — lying about. So, as we 
servants are very inquisitive” She hesitated here. 

“ Why, I suppose you peeped into Miss Cora’s desk, or 
writing-case, eh ? ” demanded Mr. Pontifex. 

“ I did sir,” answered the unabashed handmaiden. “ But it 
was in her dressing-case, of all places, as a gentleman like your- 
self would say, that I found what I was looking for. It was hid- 
den, even there, in a tiny drawer, that opened with a spring, un- 
der the ivory hairbrushes ; and then, there were some folded 
ribbons and a dried flower above it ; but we servants know 
where and how to hunt. So there I found the packet — the 
same, I dare say, on my oath, that madame gave, before my 
eyes, to Miss Cora.” 

Mr. Pontifex took his rapid notes. 

“ What did the packet contain ? ” he asked. 

“ A wedding-ring, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid. 

“ A wedding-ring ! ” was the incredulous echo of the law- 
yer. “ Why — how” And then he stared at the witness, as 

to his memory occurred the remembrance of a scene at Castel 
Vawr, when first the rival claim was made, and, in response to 
his own suggestion, a circlet of gold had been shown, glitter- 
ing on the slender white finger of each claimant. 

“ A wedding-ring, sir ; bright, but not new. A ring, as I 
should judge, rather stouter, and of a redder gold, than I ever 
saw before. Still, a wedding-ring it was,” answered Mary 
Ann. 

“ And you ? ” asked the bewildered lawyer. 

“I put it back, sir, where I found it, as a poor servant 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


213 

should ; and that is all I know, sir, concerning the packet,” 
replied the lady’s-maid. 

“ I gave Cora that ring,” explain Madam de Lalouve, 
“with injunctions to slip it on her finger, privately, before 
Castel Vawr should be reached, foreseeing as I did, that the lack 
of such a symbol might prejudice my pupil in popular esteem.” 

“ You call her your pupil, madame,” said Mr. Pontifex, 
putting the utmost restraint upon himself in the effort to be 
urbane to a woman who, in his eyes, merited the pillory and 
Bridewell. “ Am I to understand that it was Cora Carew, or 
yourself, with whom this imposture originated ? ” 

“ Oh, I claim the whole merit of the conception,” was 
the cheerful reply of the foreign Countess ; “ and yet the idea 
sank deep at the first into the disatisfied mind of Mademoiselle, 
my dear young friend. I thought, first, in Egypt, what a pity, 
when two sisters were so marvellously alike, not to draw a 
profit from the situation, one so rich, the other poor. At last, 
not without trouble and English prudery, I got hearkened to. I 
also got this girl Pinnett into my confidence, and engaged 
her to play the part which she did at Castel Vawr in identify- 
ing Miss Cora as the real Marchioness. Do you not know her 
again ? ” 

Mr. Pontifex lifted his eyeglass and looked at Pinnett, who 
seemed uneasy under his scrutiny. “ Ah ! I see it now,” he 
said, as if speaking to himself. “ I thought I had seen her face 
before.” 

“That was how I put my play on the stage,” continued the 
Countess. “ Bien / your English ingenue has played her part 
too well. She has triumphed over her sister ; but she was not 
grateful enough to the good friend, but for whom she would 
never have been anything but a needy dependent. She wanted 
me to work for dog’s wages and so I am ready to destroy what 
I have built up, and to let the true Marchioness of Leominster 
have her own again.” 

Mr, Pontifex had never been shut up in a room with such a 
woman before. A lawyer’s experience does not entitle him to 
consider our race as angels but there was something shocking 
to him in the existence of such a person as Madame de Lalouve, 
daintily discoursing of her treasons, and richly dressed, instead 
of being a female convict, with cropped hair, in Millbank Pen- 
itentiary. But he had to swallow down — to the intense though 
suppressed amusement of Chinese Jack, who read most persons’ 
thoughts, who was a man of genius as well as of resource, and 


FALSE, For/L FA/F. 


214 

who had schemes of his own maturing in that subtle brain of 
his — his righteous wrath, and to speak the woman fair. 

“ I believe, Countess,” said the lawyer, “ that you gave the 
ring to Miss Carew on board the Cyprus, and I can well fancy that 
I saw it produced later at Castel Vawr. But I don’t see how, for 
practical purposes, the ring can be proved to be yours, and not 
that placed by the late Marquis on his young wife’s finger, on his 
wedding-day. One ring is very like another. ” 

“ My ring, when examined, will not be found to be like an- 
other ! ” replied the Sphinx, with her grave smile ; “ and 
Miladi, at Castel Vawr, little deems that she carries about with 
her everywhere the proof of her guilt. When I proposed to 
help her, I hardly trusted her, at such a giddy height, to keep 
her pledge of gratitude to poor me, and so I contrived unawares 
to get a hold on her. The ring on her finger bears inside it 
my name — as a married woman — Louise Vaughan. My hus- 
band’s name, as he has told you, is Vaughan.” 

In all horror and consternation, Mr. Pontifex sprang from 
his chair, ruffling up his hair again with his fingers and frown- 
ing as he bit his lip. How he wished that he had never been 
brought into such company, never mixed up in such a business 
as this. Calming down his nerves, he said, in a tone of civil 
incredulity : “ I am afraid you will not establish your point, 
madame. It is easy to buy a wedding-ring. Miss Carew, who 
must long since have discovered the existence of this comprom- 
ising inscription upon hers, has doubtless exchanged it for a 
safer substitute.” 

Madame de Lalouve smiled as weightily as before. She is 
ignorant, monsieur, that, she carries Nemesis along with her,” 
she said ; “ nor, without the aid of a strong magnifier, can those 
tiny letters be read. A competent examiner would find that 
my statement is exact.” 

“ But I cannot go to Castel Vawr, or to Bruton Street, to 
ask a lady for a ring off her finger, for such a purpose ! ” ex- 
claimed the excited lawyer. “ I should wish for some confirm- 
atory evidence to back the assertion.” 

“ For that objection, Mr. Pontifex, I was prepared,” said 
Chinese Jack, with cheerful prompitude ; “ and indeed, since I 
saw the fictitious Marchioness yonder at the Mountain Picnic, 
in the shadow of Combe Dhu, I have been busy in providing 
such evidence. I have been over to Paris, where in the Chapel of 
the Russian Embassy, the Countess and I were married, and 
have hunted up the jeweller who caused to be made, by my or- 
ders, the ring in question. It cost some perseverance and 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


215 

some tact to get worthy M. Ariside Bonchamp, of the Rue de 
Rivoli, to rummage through his old daybooks and ledgers until 
he found the entries of this particular purchase. Then, to make 
all safe, I had to unearth the skilful workman who was the actual 
artificer of the ring ; and this was the harder, because the man, 
implicated in the revolt of the Commune, had but recently re- 
turned to Paris from exile in England, afrer the armistice, and 
was working for another employer. But here I have, as you 
see, sir, a formal certificate, signed by M. A. Bonchamp, coun- 
tersigned by his principal comtnis, who perfectly remembered the 
transaction, and witnessed by the Secretary to the Mairie of the 
arrondissement, and, as such, stamped with the official seal. 
Here, too, is the written testimony of the workman, Jules 
Pecher, who engraved the microscopic characters inside the 
ring. It is attested, as you see, by a notary public of the 
city of Paris, 12' Boulevard Malesherbes. Read these, Mr. 
Potifex, as carefully as you please, and test my statements by 
any inquiries your experience may suggest,” said Chinese Jack 
in conclusion, as he handed over the documents to the lawyer. 

“Dear me — dear me!” muttered Mr. Pontifex, as he 
glanced again and again at the papers before him. “ This is — 
very nearly conclusive, I should say. I have been cruelly de- 
ceived, andmade a most unwitting instrument in the infliction 
of such a wrong as, till now, I never dreamed of ! ” 


CHAPTER XL. 

BY SPECIAL TRAIN. 

“ If she will but own the truth,” said Mr Pontifex piteously, 
and with something like a groan. It was an odd suggestion for 
a family solicitor so eminent to make concerning one of his 
noblest clients ; but then the circumstances were so excep- 
tional. It was to Chinese Jack that he spoke. The abhorrence 
which he felt for the foreign Countess, who, by her own state- 
ment, had been the mainspring of the whole plot, deterred him 
from addressing a word to her, save under compulsion. But 
Chinese Jack, the lawyer felt, was on a different level in crime 
from this Russo-French temptress to evil. Hardened adven- 
turer as he was, he yet showed in his bearing something of the 


2i6 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


gentleman. And Mr. Pontifex could remember Dr. Vaughan, 
white-haired, learned, solemn, at the old lord’s table at Castel 
Vawr. And he recollected that the clergyman’s sickly wife had 
been the Honorable Ellen Rollingston. A very old title is that 
of Lord Rollingston. This reckless fellow was, after all, a 
peer’s grandson, and, on the mother’s side, with a pedigree 
stretching to the First Crusade. So, somehow, Mr Pontifex 
preferred to speak to Chinese Jack. 

“ I think she will,” said Chinese Jack, who probably guessed 
some of the little lawyer’s thoughts, and was at any rate on his 
best behavior. “ 1 think, from what I saw of her in Wales there, 
that the fortress will surrender at the first trumpet flourish. 
But — for I see that you still feel doubtful, Mr Pontifex — 1 have, 
or rather my wife has, an extra proof to produce. I had better 
mention that the true Marchioness, in Bruton Street, being of 
9 , sensitive nature, and feeling averse to the warfare she was 
forced to carry on against the usurping sister whom she has 
never ceased to love, tried to avoid painful details by delega- 
ting to my clever wife the task of dealing with her active lawyer, 
Mr. Sterling. And here is a letter of Mr. Sterling’s, received 
a fortnight since, during my abse'nce on rhy Paris trip. The 
Marchioness — I speak of the true one — knows its contents ; 
and Countess Louise has satisfied herself that Sir Pagan’s 
sister, in Bruton Street, bears nothing on her wrist which 
corresponds with what is here set down.” 

And, as her husband finished speaking, Madame de Lalouve 
rose, and with grave courtesy placed a letter in the lawyer’s 
band. Mr. Pontifex perused it. It ran thus ; 

“ Madam — In compliance with the request of Miss Carew, 
so-called — otherwise, the Marchioness of Leominister — of 
Bruton Street, I beg to inform you that Detective Sergeant 
Drew has discovered a most important and, I think, almost 
crushing proof as to our client’s identity. A former nurse has. 
deposed to there being a slight but indelible scar on the inner 
part of the wrist of Miss Cora Carew, caused by the accidental 
burn inflicted by a candle, upset on the morning of a dark 
winter’s day, when both sisters were christened. The mark is 
of a dull, bluish white, small, but easily to be seen. It is on 
the under side of the left wrist. On investigation, no doubt it 
would readily be recognized. Nurse Dawson — Jane Dawson — 
residing in the hamlet of Monk’s Hollow, Thoresby, Devon — 
avers that she never mentioned the occurrence to any friend or 
fellow-servant, being afraid of blame for her carelessness. This, 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


2t7 

I feel sure, if the old woman’s nerves remain unshaken in cross- 
examination, and by the unwonted bustle and excitement of a 
journey and a trial, will prove most important evidence. — I 
remain, Madam, obediently yours, 

“ William Sterling.” 

“ Mr. Sterling is right,” said Mr. Pontifex, whose mind was 
quite made up mow. “ The evidence is indeed important; nor 
will my unhappy client, wretched girl ! hold out against this 
storm of crushing evidence. So much the better if by her con- 
fession the scandal of a trial can be spared. — Now, with your 
leave, I will make copies of the documents on the table here, 
as my credentials when I reach Castel Vawr. The originals, of 
course, you will keep possession of until the Marchbury assizes, 
unless the unfair is earlier finished, as I hope.” 

Chinese Jack, Madame de Lalouve, and Mary Ann Pinnett 
had no objection to urge against the attorney’s reasonable 
request : and accordingly, Mr. Pontifex, seating himself at his 
writing-table, carefully copied out each of the papers submitted 
to him, and then, folding the originals, with a formal bow re- 
turned them to Chinese Jack. 

“ You may be pretty certain of your object,” said the 
solicitor, half bitterly. Mine is, now, to avoid unnecessary 
disgrace to the noble family into which Miss Carew married. 
You will hear from myself, or from her ladyship, shortly, Mr. 
Vaughan. — And, Madame, I may say as much to you. Your 
cards, with the address on each, I see, lie on the table. — Permit 
me to offer you some refreshments, after your late drive.” 

But Chinese Jack and his stately consort declined availing 
themselves of the lawyer’s hospitality. They had done their 
errand, and now they took their leave, attended by the ex- 
lady’s-maid ; and scarcely had the last sound of their carriage- 
wheels grinding over the gravel died away, before Mr. Ponti- 
fex started, as a new thought occurred to his bewildered mind. 
“ Why, bless my soul ! the wedding — with Lord Putney — is for 
to-morrow — for this very morning, and, at any cost, it must be 
stopped.” He looked at his watch. It was very late, or 
rather early, in the small hours, already, and to trust to ordi- 
nary trains was idle. He rang the bell. “ I want one of the 
grooms, mounted, to gallop to London,” he said to his butler, 
“and to order me a special train, so as to reach Castel Vawr 
without delay. I will write the order, while George gets ready. 
Let him take the bay horse ; and let Thomas get the carriage 
ready, and bring it round- I shall take a glass of sherry and 


2i8 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


a biscuit, James, and then start — called away on business. 
You must mention it to my daughters in the morning.” 

Then James the butler, as he hurried to do his master’s 
bidding, knew that something serious must have occurred ; for 
the pretty horse, bay with black points, was an expensive 
thoroughbred, prized highly by Miss Pontifex, and a costly 
mount for a midnight messenger among the slippery streets. 

Hastily Mr. Pontifex wrote his letter to the London station- 
master at the terminus', hastily he packed his portmanteau, 
nibbled his biscuit, and tossed off his sherry, while his mounted 
groom was speeding towards the metropolis. It was some time 
before the carriage came round to the door. As Mr. Pontifex 
was bustling through the porch, an upper window was thrown 
up, and a feminine voice said softly : “ Papa, dear, are you 
going from home ? Shall you soon be back ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, Margaret, love,”- cried the lawyer, as he jumped 
in. “ To-morrow, or next day. I’ll write. Called off to Cas- 
tel Vawr ! Don’t fret. — And you, Thomas, drive fast, will 
you ! ” 

It is one thing, when you do not happen to be a Royal 
Highness or Chairman of a Board of Directors, to order a 
special train at untimeous hours and at short notice, and another 
to get one. Mr. Pontifex, arriving hot and eager at the ter- 
minus, was chafed to find the acting manager so cool and so 
impassive, and so provokingly ready with unanswerable reasons 
why he must wait before he could be served with the expensive 
luxury he wanted. The line was not clear here ; there was a 
hitch somewhere else. The only engine-driver who could be 
spared was off duty ; the only available stoker was being 
hunted for in his lodgings, a mile away. It was bitterly cold, 
and the great deserted station was as cheerless as the cata- 
combs. 

At last Mr. Pontifex got his special train. At last he was 
ensconced, in solitary state, in the corner of a first class carri- 
age, linked to the engine, that puffed and wheezed and snort- 
ed, as if it too, the steam-horse, resented being called into ac- 
tion at improper hours. The driver looked grim, the fireman 
sullen. The one or two sleepy officials on the platform seemed 
to regard Mr. Pontifex as a personal enemy. Then the whistle 
sounded, and off went the special. 

Very uneviable were the feelings of the little lawyer as he 
was whisked along, in the cold and the gloom of the frosty 
night, in the raw chill of the foggy morning, when Natuie her- 
self seemed in the agonies of death, and all the world lay un- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


219 

der an irregular winding sheet of snow, pure here, smirched 
there, with a pall of clouds above, and presently in the bright, 
pale sunlight. 

All the time, as he jolted and jumbled along, the light car- 
riage bounding at the heels, as it were, of the rushing engine, 
he was consulting his watch by the light of the dim lamp. 
Should he be in time ? He very much doubted it. Precious 
hours had been lost, and, for aught he could tell, a marriage, 
which would be, to two distinguished families, a serious mis- 
fortune, might have taken place before he could be there to in- 
terefere. Of course, he had longed to telegraph ; but in such 
a case it was impossible. A living man must be there, at Cas- 
tel Vawr, proofs in hand, to put a stop to the proceedings of 
the day, not a mere slip of paper with pencilled words on it. 
To Sir Pagan’s sister, in Bruton Street, he had, from the Lon- 
don terminus, telegraphed, briefly informing her that her cause 
was triumphant, and that her presence as early as possible at 
Castel Vawr would be on all grounds expedient. 

When Mr. Pontifex reached the little Dinas Vawr station, 
it was already past ten o’clock. 

“ Not a carriage to be had, for, love or money, I’m sorry to 
say,” said the civil station-master. “ There are traps and 
four-wheeled carriages always on hire at the Montgomery Arms ; 
but to-day, everything on wheels has been snapped up for the 
grand wedding — my lady’s- — up there at the church on the 
hill. We have grand doings here, sir, to day, which perhaps, 
you have not heard of. And there is nothing to be had.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Pontifex stoutly, after another hasty 
glance at his watch — “ then I must use my feet.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE. 

Brightly, if coldly, shone the wintry sun upon the gray 
stone belfry, lichen-crusted, of the small, sturdy, ancient church 
that nestled so close to the rocks that were topped by feudal 
Castel Vawr. Seldom had that church witnessed such a dis- 
play of wealth, luxury, and fashion — to quote the County 
Chronicle — as it then beheld. Of course it had seen the es- 


220 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIE. 


pousals of noble brides and knightly wooers ; but the owners 
of the castle had usually been married in London. Now, there 
were thirty carriages at the least, with rattling silver-mounted 
harness, and superb horses, that champed the bit and fretted 
at their inaction, drawn up outside the moss-grown churchyard 
wall. There was crimson cloth laid down from the churchyard 
gate, outside which rose the first of a series of triumphal arches, 
twined with greenery and artificially reared blossoms, soon to 
fade, which extended to the castle itself. A double hedge of 
school-children, girls, of course — boys on these occasions are 
shelved — waited, in their new white muslin frocks, with their 
new sashes of glistening pink silk, a basketful of hothouse 
flowers on each young arm, outside the church-door and all 
along the flagged path from church-door to wicket-gate, to do 
honor to the bride by strewing roseS and lilies on her path. 

Within the church, sat or stood a dense crowd of expectant 
sightseers, bidden guests for the most part. Those narrow old 
aisles had rarely been so crammed by well-dressed people ; and 
even the tiny organ-loft was filled by fashionably attired ladies 
in bright apparel, with fans ready to flutter, and gold or silver 
topped smelling-bottles, awaiting the arrival of the performers 
in the interesting ceremony that was about to begin. Outside 
the church, and to some extent within it^ stood those who were 
neither great nor fashionable — farmers and their wives and 
daughters, a few laborers in their Sunday best, and several of 
those old women whose delight in weddings is inexhaustible. 
Within the altar rails stood, in full episcopal attire, with rust- 
ling robes and spotless lawn sleeves, the Bishop, mild, pink- 
faced, and kindly. Near him was Archdeacon Crane, looking 
far more like a medieval prelate than did the actual wearer of 
the mitre ; while the commonplace rector and pallid curate . 
completed the ecclesiastical display. 

Sir Timothy’s spacious mansion had furnNhed a large con- 
tingent of those present ; but it is wonderful how far Welsh 
gentry, and those English county families of the Marches who 
have so much of the Cymric blood in their veins, will drive to 
be present at ball or archery meeting, and a wedding above all, 
so that most of those present were distant neighbors. Just 
outside the altar rails stood, resplendent, the jaunty bridegroom. 
His ‘ best-man,’ the Hon. Algernon March, and one or two 
other tall young patricians, with vacuous faces, had gathered 
round him. There were times when these young men, born in 
the purple, forgot that Lord Putney was old, and not young as 
they were. At other times, a hazy sense of not ill-natured 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


221 


amusement titillated their somewhat stolid nerves at the recol- 
lection that the dapper little peer was really the senior of their 
own fathers. But, be it remarked, no one despised Lord Put- 
ney. Men are so very lenient where a man has never done a 
dishonorable act. The Viscount was often ridiculous ; but his 
juniors, though they laughed, were indulgent in their laughter. 
‘ Poor old Putney ! * was about the worst thing ever said of him, 
and it was mildly spoken. 

There was a good deal of delay. Time went on. Waiting 
is weary work at the best, and kicking one’s heels not an 
agreeable pastime. The ladies in the pews and crowding the 
aisles grew impatient, opening their fans and shutting them up 
with a sharp snap. The heavy-shod rustics clattered t&ir nailed 
boots on the pavement. Lord Putney had too much tact to 
consult his watch ; but the enamelled snuff-box was in frequent 
requisition, and at each fresh pinch of the fragrant powder 
within there was a new anecdote, or a warmed-up epigram, 
wasted on the worthy young dandies who clustered around. 
Click, click went the fans, stamp, stamp went the iron-tipped 
boots on the dull gray marble beneath. Time went on. Watches 
were peeped at, stealthily at first, then openly. There certainly 
was a strange delay. Could it be that something was wrong, 
something amiss, up at Castel Vawr Brides, of course, are 
not always in their bridal array to the moment ; but still, it 
was odd how the minutes slipped away, and the patient Bishop 
and the frowning Archdeacon waited for the coming of the 
young bride. Marriage, no doubt, is a serious thing ; yet it 
has a certain theatrical aspect, as even funerals have. And it 
did seem very much as if the other actors, dapper, elderly bride- 
groom, lawn-sleeved Bishop, and all, were waiting behind the 
footlights for the promised appearance of the prima donna. 
Waiting, none the less, is a fretful occupation, and soon there 
was a serious doubt in minds the most shallow and most frivo- 
lous as to whether something — nobody could guess what, but 
still something — had gone wrong at Castel Vawr. 

Then at last came from afar the deep, steady roll of car- 
riages approaching — the Castel Vawr carriages, of course. They 
rolled up to the wicketgate one by one, and there was champ- 
ing of bits and stamping of hoofs ; and next the well-drilled 
school-children set up their shrill carol — a sort of epithalamium 
dashed with hymnology, of which the local schoolmaster, its 
author, was enormously proud, and which had been most pain- 
fully studied for some weeks — in welcome to the bride. Then, 
beneath the low, pointed arch of the church, her tiny han^ 


222 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


resting on the sturdy arm of the Duke of Snowdon, the bride 
herself became visible, like a dawning comet on the horizon. 
Next came the Duchess, on the arm of the flurried present 
Marquis of Leominster ; then Lady Barbara, a blaze of jewels, 
supported by Lord William Hill — so said the County Chronick., 
but at any rate walking stiffly beside His Grace’s useful brother. 
And then poured in the eight bridesmaids, dressed alike, as so 
many sisters for the nonce, bright, fresh girls, all of them, and 
two, the Ladies Gwendoline and Flora, who led the maiden 
phalanx, absolutely handsome. They, and their silk and lace 
and gauze and well-assorted colors, and the lockets they all 
wore, in turquoises and brilliants — the gift of Lady Barbara — 
and the bracelets that glittered on all their wrists — a gift from 
Lord Putney, in brilliants and turquoises to match — were quite 
a principal feature in the show. A column of the Mornmg Post 
and any amount of the country newspapers would be necessary 
to set off the bravery of the display. 

How lovely the bride looked ! The calm beauty of her 
sweet young face — free now from every trace of the carking 
care that for months had clouded it — shone out, and lent a 
real lustre to the ceremonial. Never before, perhaps, had the 
famous family diamonds of Leominster, which flashed like fire 
on her bosom, in her ears, around her wrists, and her shapely 
swanlike neck, been so fortunate in their wearer. Most of 
those who saw her forgot that she had been a widow, a young 
wife, early left alone, and saw her but as the beautiful girl she 
looked. Her golden hair, wrapped around her shapely head, 
glistened in the bright winter sun. A superb tiara of Parma 
violets and great diamonds rose above the white forehead and 
the radiant face all smiles and blushes, and upheld the filmy veil of 
matchless lace. A strange contrast was she, in the bloom and 
glory of her youth, to the elderly bridegroom, who now stepped 
briskly forward, with white-gloved hand outstretched, to claim 
his bride. What a Romeo was this for such a Juliet ! But 
Lord Putney seemed quite unconscious of any incongruity in 
the situation. The rough, kind Duke of Snowdon fell back a 
little, and Lord Putney gracefully took his place beside the 
lovely bride. Would it not be his duty, pride, and privilege 
henceforth to be ever at her side, cherishing and guarding her 
as a husband should ! The fair column of bridesmaids passed 
trippingly on, and, rustling and whispering, formed in proper 
order behind the bride, hard by the altar. The World had 
done its part. Lord Putney was ready ; so was the nuptial ring, 
in its envelope of silver paper, griped in the muscular hand of 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FATE. 


223 


the Hon. Algernon March, nervously anxious as to the safe 
custody of his precious trust. And now it was for the Church 
to do her share of the good work on hand of linking two human 
beings indissolubly together till death do them part. The 
Bishop was quite ready ; so was the Venerable the Arch- 
deacon ; so was the imcumbent of the parish, who waited to ‘ as- 
sist : ’ and so, of course, was his subordinate the curate. The 
Bishop shook out his lawn sleeves, smiled benignly, and opened 

his book. ‘ Dearly beloved ’ began his Right Reverend 

Lordship. 

What was that, just as the fans were slowly flapping to and 
fro, as if to mark time to the words of the marriage service, 
impressively delivered in the Bishop’s best double bass, which 
caused that dignified ecclesiastic, who alone, from where he 
stood, could see the door, to come to an awkward pause in his 
exordium, and to let the last syllable die away on his lips ? 
What was it ? An unseemly noise, no doubt, as of scuf- 
fling, remonstrance, insistance, and then every one turned to 
look toward the scene of the disturbance. Who was that ex- 
cited little man, travel-worn, breathless, who pushed his way up 
the crowded aisle, his hand uplifted, as if in token of warning ? 
Who but IVfr. Pontifex ! 

The little lawyer came bustling forward, his hand held out, 
gasping painfully for breath, and no wonder, since he had 
found no conveyance at the railway station where he had 
alighted, and the uphill walk, hurriedly performed, would have 
been a severe trial to the limbs and lungs of better-trained 
pedestrians than the eminent family solicitor had ever been. 
The Bishop looked aghast. There was no attempt to go on 
with the service. The bride was seen to tremble from head to 
foot, and to turn white visibly under her splendid veil, shrink- 
ing like a guilty thing, before a word had been uttered on’ 
either side. There was a general silence. Lord Putney 
seemed exceedingly uncomfortable. His Grace of Snowdon 
and the Marquis of Leominster looked awkwardly at one another. 
Neither of the two felt privileged, by the ties of relationship, 
or of old friendship, to interfere, as a father or a brother might 
have done. 

Lady Barbara it was who stepped forth, anger glittering in 
her eyes. “ Mr. Pontifex,” Ihe indignantly exclaimed “ what 
can possibly have occurred to authorize this most unwarrantable 
intrusion ? ” 

Mr. Pontifex gaspingly, and in staccato sentences, replied : 
“ A very painful task. As your ladyship’s legal adviser — ^felt 


O^TE FALSE, BOTH FATE, 


it to be my duty — circumstances have come to light — undeniable 
proofs — I should prefer to speak in private — but,” and here 
the lawyer’s broken voice grew peremptory and emphatic, “ this 
marriage must not go on. I have telegraphed to Lady Leo> 
minster, in Bruton Street.” Then, lowering his voice till it 
could only be heard by Lady Barbara and the bride, he added : 
“ I am afraid the proofs are but too clear that the Marchioness 
is now at her brother’s in Bruton Street ; and I opine, there- 
fore, that the wedding to-day is impossible.” 

The bride uttered a low wailing cry, and staggered, and 
would have fallen, had not the Duke, with a presence of mind 
that surprised himself, caught her as she was sinking to the 
floor. There was a murmur everywhere of horror, pity, sur- 
prise. Lord Putney hurried up, real anxiety in his face. But 
the bride seemed to have eyes for none but Lady Barbara at 
her side, and to whom she clung. “ Take me away — home — 
home — hide me from all these eyes ! ” she whispered, plaintively; 
and, supported by the Duke on one side, and Lady Barbara on 
the other, she tottered, rather than walked, along the aisle and 
through the church-door. Lord Putney following, embarrassed 
and uneasy. At the sight of the bride the school-children 
without set up their congratulatory carol — what mockery it 
sounded then ! — and began strewing fresh flowers ; but they 
were hastily silenced and thrust back ; and then the wicket- 
gate of the churchyard was reached, and the carriage, with its 
noble horses bedecked with white favors, that awaited the 
bride. Shrinking, sobbing, half-fainting, the unhappy girl al- 
lowed herself to be placed within it. Lady Barbara alone ac- 
companying her. Twice did Lord Putney speak, but he re- 
ceived no answer by word or look. 

“ Home — to the castle ! ” said Lady Barbara sharply ; and 
the carriage swept rapidly off, under the long line of triumphal 
arches, to Castel Vawr. 

Lord Putney went back into the church, and walked up to 
where stood Mr. Pontifex, surrounded by those who were eager 
.for an explanation of the extraordinary interruption tot he pro- 
ceedings of the day. But neither to Marquis, Duke, nor Bishop, 

' nor even to the bridegroom-elect, could Mr. Pontifex be in- 
duced to tender any explanation. “ My professional duty to 
my clients, in this place seals my lips,” he said. “ I have had 
a very painful office to perform, and can only be thankful that 
I arrived in time. At the castle, I shall be happy to make my 
meaning more plain to those who have a right to question me 
as to my interference to-day.” 


OKE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


^^5 

By this time there was a general hum of low-voiced talk ; 
but presently, the old church was left to its customary silence 
and repose, as the long line of carriages broke up and dispersed 
bearing homeward the guests and the spectators. There 
would be no banqueting at the castle in honor of the bridal on 
that day — that was clear. Only Mr. Pontifex and Lord Putney, 
in addition to those who were visitors there, took their places 
in the Castel Vawr carriages, which now dashed swiftly off. 
No joy-bells were to ring, no more flowers were to be thrown, 
or songs sung, for the wedding ceremony, so strangely and so 
ominously broken off. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

FORGIVENESS. 

The servants at Castel Vawr had work enough to do, 
and matter enough to fill their puzzled minds to overflowing, 
on the eventful morning of the interrupted marriage. When 
bewildered Lady Barbara returned home from the church with 
the half-unconscious bride, she found an urgent telegram, 
awaiting her. It was a happy thought on the part of Sir 
Pagan Carew to send that telegram. It simply an- 
nounced the early arrival, per such and such a train, 
of himself and his sister, and requested that a carriage might 
be in waiting at the station. Lady Barbara frowned ; but she 
had her iron nerves under strong control, and she gave orders 
as distinctly as one of the Great Frederick’s highly trained 
officers might have done, had that will-crushing monarch com- 
manded him to make the necessary arrangement for his own 
military execution and unceremonious funeral. 

“ It is Sir Pagan — Sir Pagan Carew — and her ladyship, 
his sister, whom you are to wait for at the station,” she said, 
in her austerest tone. She could not bring herself to tell the 
liveried serving-man that it was his true mistress, the genuine 
Marchioness of Leominster, who was to be conveyed to Castel 
Vawr in her own carriage ; but servants know far more than 
we tell them, and the respectful “ Yes my lady,” of the man 
addressed, meant more than mere mechanical obedience. 

Within the castle, for a time, something like anarchy 


226 


ONE EALSEy BOTN EAIE. 


reigned. The best drilled household, like the best drilled regi- 
ment, is capable of being disorganized by violent excitement ; 
and then, too, the mansion contained many who were not ser- 
vants, but decorators, assistant-cooks and pastry cooks, artifi- 
cers in fireworks, florists — all called in to be useful in the festiv- 
ities. There was much disappointment. There was even 
more of curiosity. The few dignified guests — Duke and Duchess, 
the Marquis, the Bishop, with excited Lord Putney, and grim 
Lady Barbara — were shut up in the Painted Room, in solemn 
conclave with Mr. Pontifiex, who alone held the key of the enig- 
ma. The lawyer, of course, had to relate, as guardedly as 
professional etiquette and a sense of duty dictated, the real 
history of the great Leominster case — to set down, tersely, the 
proofs that had caused his client’s cause to collapse like a 
burst bubble ; and to make clear to prejudiced minds and dull 
wits how very complete was the solution of mystery. But Mr. 
Pontifex found his task unexpectedly easy. The guilt-stricken 
demeanor, the utter prostration, of the hapless bride, had done 
more to damage her cause in popular estimation than the most 
cogent arguments and the most convincing array of witnesses 
could have done. 

“ It has been very much on your account. Lord Putney, 
that I ventured on a step so unusual, so distressing, but so ne- 
cessary,” said the little lawyer. 

And Lord Putney, with real tears in his wrinkled old eyes, 
and looking as though by art magic he had aged a score of years 
within two hours, but still tapping the invaluable enamelled 
snuff-box that had been a gift from royalty, stammered out 
that he was ‘ mons’ous obliged ’ to Mr. Pontifex. He was the 
first to depart from the castle where he had thought, with a 
lovely young wife on his padded arm, to reign as master ; first 
to the hospitable mansion of Sir Timothy, and then, as soon 
as possible, to his bachelor abode in deserted London. Bishop, 
Marquis, Duke, and Duchess, were all busy with their prepara- 
tions for a start. 

Meanwhile, the unhappy bride remained in the seclusion 
of her own splendidly furnished suite of apartments, as Lady 
Barbara had left her. There is a well spring of womanly kind- 
ness towards another weeping woman, which it takes a strong 
motive, such as bitter personal jealousy or a sharp sense of 
wrong, to dry up. In Lady Barbara’s* instance it was a sharp 
sense of wrong. She, who piqued herself on her wisdom, had 
been cruelly deceived. She had been paraded before the whole 
countryside as a friend and partisan of an approved impostor. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


227 


For she, with feminine intuition, had not waited for Mr. Ponti- 
fex to tell his tale, before her mind was made up. The con- 
duct of the bride was to her fancy as complete a confession, 
before the. lawyer spoke as ever penitent uttered, with or with- 
out the stimulus of rack or thumbscrew. So, when she brought 
her almost helpless charge back to Castel Vawr, she left her to 
the care of servants. “Your women will look to your com- 
fort,” she said coldly, as she withdrew. 

Presently — it was not very long, by the mere prosaic 
measurement of hours and minutes, but it seemed an age to 
those who waited — there came the deep roll of the expected 
carriage, and the clash of hoofs and spurning of gravel, as the 
foam-flecked horses stopped in front of the stately main entrance 
of Castel Vawr. There was Sir Pagan, apologetic and uncom- 
fortable ; and there, in her plain garb, was the lovely young 
Marchioness, the rightful sovereign, come back from unjust 
exile, from loneliness, suffering, suspicion undeserved, to take 
possession of her own. But there was no sparkle of triumph 
in those pure, clear eyes ; no pride in the sad smile with which 
Clare of Leominster acknowledged the greetings of the obsequi- 
ous servants, drawn up in double file to welcorrie their real 
mistress. 

“ My sister — where is my sister ? ” — that was all she said. 

And when crestfallen Lady Barbara came, almost peniten- 
tially, to meet her and to crave her forgiveness for a great injury 
unwittingly done ; and when the present Marquis, who alone, 
of privileged wedding-guests, lingered for a while, came up to 
say some good-natured words, Clare’s answer to both of these 
loftily placed personages was such as became her. “ I thank 
you for your kind words, my lord,” she said gracefully to the 
Marquis, who could never forget that he had been Dolly Mont- 
gomery ; “ and I hope, some day, we may be friends. At any- 
rate, on my side, as on yours, I am sure there is no feeling 
which is not friendly.” 

To Lady Barbara she simply said : “ Do not, I beg of you, 
take it so much to heart. I never. Lady Barbara, looked on 
you as really my enemy. You stood for the right, as matters 
seemed. But now, forgive me, I can have but one thought — 
my sister.” 

“ Poor thing — poor thing ! I hope. Lady Leominster, you 
will consider,” stammered out the kind, fat, blundering Marquis, 
reddening to the roots of his dyed hair, in a manner that made 
even rough Sir Pagan, speechless in the background, feel him- 
self a Stoic and a man of the world in comparison. Very soft- 


228 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


hearted was weak Dolly Montgomery, and yet so shy, that it 
had caused him a painful effort to intercede for the offender. 
He had done his duty, however ; and it was with a sense of relief 
that he turned upon Sir Pagan, whom he had met in many a 
resort of London men, and told the baronet first that he was 
awfully glad, and then that he was awfully sorry, and in fact 
was glibly incoherent. But Sir Pagan understood him perfectly 
well. 

“ Your sister. Lady Leominster, is upstairs,” replied Lady 
Barbara, with extra stiffness. “ In bringing her back — over- 
come as she was by emotion, due to her sin having found her 
out — from the church which her presence disgraced, I felt that 
my acquaintance with Miss Cora Carew closed. In your hands 
I leave her; for, under present circumstances, even with your 
ladyship’s permission, Gastel Vawr could be no longer a home 
for me. Preparations, then, for my departure have already 
commenced. As for your miserable sister ” 

“ Miserable, yes ; unhappy, yes. But spare me words of 
blame, where she is concerned, I pray you. Lady Barbara,” an- 
swered Clare gently, but proudly. “ Be sure that she, poor 
thing, suffers the most. It is not for us to break a bruised 
reed.” 

Then the eyes of Lady Barbara, imperious eyes, angry, ex- 
acting, met those pure steadfast ones of Clare, Marchioness 
of Leominster, gentle, good, and merciful, in that hour of sud- 
den success, that intoxicates so many with the fierce thrill and 
passion of triumph, but which merely served to show the girl’s 
noble nature at its best. In her seemed realized some of the 
highest atributes of the chivalrous race from which she sprang 
— that tenderness to a worn-out servant, an old horse, an old 
hound, a feeble falcon that could hawk no more, that the de- 
cayed House she sprang from had been noted for of old. And 
as with consideration for a disabled retainer or a dumb friend 
past his work, so was it with open foes. More than one knight 
of the Carews, victorious after a sharp struggle, had held up 
his lance in the flush of pursuit, and bid his men, hot in chase 
after the runaways, “ spare Christian blood, and let the poor 
knaves go free.” 

Lady Barbara was of another mould. The lex talionis 
was dear to her, and she had somewhat of Draco’s austere 
spirit about her. She did like the sinner to suffer for his sin. 
The haughty spinster would have made a pattern squaw of the 
Sioux or the Comanches, always ready to inflict inexorably, or to 
endure unflinchingly, the tortures of the stake ; nor did she 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIE, 


229 

see why culprits should not pay their penalty, richly deserved. 
But, somehow, she understood that in Clare, she had met with 
a nature superior to her own ; and, with a few confused words, 
she gave way to the new mistress of Castel Vawr. 

Clare went to her sister. It was no easy matter to reach 
her. The unhappy pseudo-Marchioness retained enough of, 
authority to enable her to deny admission to the apartments 
which she still occupied. For a time the trembling women who 
guarded her door kept to their post, “ Her ladyship’s orders — 
please, my lady,” they repeated, with the instinct of long 
practised obedience. But, after one or two repulses, Clare put 
them aside, gently but firmly. She went in, alone, through the 
pretty rooms, to where her conquered rival, in her last strong- 
hold awaited the dreaded coming of the sister whom she had 
injured, and who was now to be her judge. The bride-elect 
lay on her bed — her pale, tear-stained face half hidden 
by the curtains, that were partly drawn, still in her bridal fi- 
nery, a heap, as it were, of glimmering whiteness and flashing 
gems, cast recklessly down — in an attitude of despair. A 
bright fire of crackling logs burned in front of the bed, and by 
its light — ^for already clouds were dimming the fitful sunbeams 
of the short wintry day — the famous diamonds of the House of 
Leominster, stones that had a history, shone like stars on the 
head the bosom, the slender arms, of the vanquished usurper, 
whose air of utter prostration seemed the more complete be- 
cause of its contrast with the splendor of her wedding-array. 

“ I said I would not see you — I gave orders that I should 
not be disturbed,” she said, sullenly. 

“ I had to force my way to you ” answered the silvery tones 
of Clare, as she bent over the bed. “ I am at home now, you 
know, Cora, dear ; and it is for me to insist.” she added, half 
playfully half tearfully, as she tried to take one of the bride’s 
cold hands in her’s. 

Resentfully, her sister pushed her back. “ How you must 
hate me ! ” she cried out, shrilly, as she raised her head, and 
looked with wild eyes at the intruder, like a hunted animal 
driven to bay. 

“ I hate yCu, dear sister ! Clare hate Cora — her other self, 
the dear one that grew up at her side, when we two were poor 
neglected young things, after our mother died, in our Devon 
home ! ” said the sweet, kind voice ; and, somehow, the girl 
who lay upon the bed, gorgeous in her bridal attire, winced at 
every soft word as at a blow. 

You— must hate me — as I deserve 1 ” she said, sinking 


230 ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 

back and trying — so it seemed — to hide her face among the 
pillows. 

“ Believe me, my own sister, Cora dear, I loved you through- 
out, and in spite of all,’’ went on the Marchioness. Nor even * 
when, in that memorable interview in Leominster House, she 
had appealed in vain to her usurping sister’s better nature, 
had there been such a pathos and such music in her voice — 
never had she pleaded before as she pleaded now — now, when 
all were won over to her side, now, in the hour of success. 

“ Had it not been for Wilfred’s sake But never mind 

that now. Come, Cora, let all be forgotten and forgiven. ■ Let 
us kiss and be friends ! It has been a dreadful dream — a 
painful time. Poor Clare has been very sad and very lonely ; 
nor have you, dear, been happy, I am sure ; but now I have 
come home it will be all right, and we two shall be loving sis- 
ters, as before, and ” 

“ Is it possible } ” cried the girl, looking up, and thrusting 
back from her temples the dishevelled gold of her hair. “ Can 
you forgive me even that — or are you mocking me } ” Her 
eyes, swimming in tears, met those eyes of Clare’s, which 
might have been the eyes of an angel, glorious, merciful, look- 
ing down upon her ; and for the first time, her hearr, warped, 
but npt hardened, was touched. She hid her face. — “ Clare, 
Clare ! ” she broke out passionately, “ I was wicked, I was 
mad — a false sister, a fickle friend ! All that may now be said 
of me is true, and I acknowledge the great wrong I did you. 
But it was because I was weak, and let myself be lured on by 
the persuasions of that French temptress, of the wily intriguer, 
who first whispered in my ear how easy would success be, and 
how great the prize to be won. But, sister, your wretched 
Cora has been punished already. Indeed, indeed, I have re- 
pented, ever since, of that wickedness. I was too bucklered 
in my stubborn pride^ — we Carews are proud — and too much 
ashamed, to own ihe truth, often as I longed to tell it. Often 
and often, in the stillness of the night, ‘‘ Oh, would that I had 
never done it ! ” has been my cry, as it might have been that 
of a lost spirit. I felt like one. I did not dare to pray. And 
yet, I was obstinate in my evil path. Never. I fear, should I 
have had the grace to own the truth ; but now I am glad — yes, 
sister, glad, that the mask is torn off, and my sin has found me 
out, and men know me for the hateful thing I am ! And— and 
I will go away, and not be a sorrow or disgrace to those who 
bear my name, any more.” 

Very gently, soothingly, and with infinite patience— -such 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


231 


patience as love alone confers — her nobler sister calmed, with 
kisses and tender words, the passionate sorrow of the wild and 
wayward girl. “ All is forgiven ; let all be forgotten, and let 
us two be as before. Come, Cora, dear — for old Clare’s 
sake ! ” 

And at last the frantic outburst of grief and self-upbraiding 
was hushed ; and, calling her women, and leaving them to dis- 
robe her, Clare left her unhappy sister, broken in spirit indeed, 
but not utterly desperate, now that the dreaded meeting had 
taken place. And then the Marquis went, and even Lady Bar- 
bara departed, and only Mr. Pontifex and Sir Pagan stayed on 
with the sisters at Castel Vawr. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

The time of those most eminent family solicitors Pounce 
and Pontifex was too ■ valuable for Mr. Pontifex, the real, if 
not the titular, head of the firm, to spare more than two or 
three days, even to so important a client as the Marchioness 
of Leominster, mistress of Castel Vawr. It is with these 
veteran legal advisers of the great, as it was of old in Mero- 
vingian France with mayors of the palace — the man who knows 
all must manage all, for the comfort of His Grace or the Earl. 
Even Clare, grateful as she felt to her own lawyer, Mr. Sterl- 
ing for his good service and faith in her cause, soon to be 
splendidly recompensed, and n^ver forgotten, felt that Pounce 
and Pontifex must still keep the title-deeds and transact the 
business of the almost princely House of which her husband 
had been chief. The Lincoln’s Inn solicitors were like grand 
functionaries of state, true to the 'reigning sovereign, and to 
displace them would have been almost as much an act of van- 
dalism as to modernize Norman Castel Vawr with terra-cotta 
pottery and encaustic tiles. 

Mr. Pontifex stayed for his instructions. The only one of 
them to which he demurred was the order to pay into the 
hands, the false greedy hands, of Countess Louise de Lalouve 
the large sum of money which Clare had promised her. 

“ Such a foreign, adventuress as that must be paid for her 
trouble, of course ; but surely not. Lady Leominster, en^ched 
so undeservedly. A more moderate sum would amply, — ” 


232 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR, 


“ I promised, Mr. Pontifex ; and I must keep my word to 
the letter, no matter how the guerdon has been earned, or how 
base may be the recipient,” interrupted Clare. 

Mr. Pontifew seemed as if still inclined to remonstrate ; 
but at that moment a servant entered the room ' and delivered 
him a letter. He opened and read it. It was from Mr. Sterl- 
ing, and was very brief : 

“ Dear Sir — It will be unnecessary for her ladyship the 
Marchioness of Leominster to trouble herself further in the 
matter of the reward promised to the foreign Countess de 
Lalouve. She and her husband were yesterday apprehended 
in London by two French agents of police, on a charge, which, 
if proved against them, will render them liable to possibly life- 
long imprisonment. I have also learned much as to that 
wicked woman’s proceedings in the painful case in which I 
have had the honor to act for her ladyship ; and I find that 
even a few days ago the Countess’s husband offered, if the 
hush-money were raised by the side which you then repre- 
sented, to withdraw from the bargain made with my late client, 
and leave her to her fate. In these circumstances — ^which I 
think can be verified by Miss Cora Carew — her ladyship may 
consider herselc fully exonerated from any promise which in 
good faith she may have made to that worthless and treacher- 
our woman.” 

And so this matter was settled as Mr. Pontifex had wished. 

It was a bad time for Sir Pagan when the little lawyer went 
away from Castel Vawr. Mr. Pontifex was not congenial com- 
pany for the half-educated baronet of sporting tastes ; but, at 
any rate, he was a man ; and gentlemen of Sir Pagan’s degree 
of culture and intellectual calibre can only talk to men. The 
out-at elbows lord of Carew had promised his sister Clare that 
he would stay with her at her Border castle as long as his 
presence would be a comfort and a protection to her, and he 
kept his word, though time hung very heavily on his hands ; 
and to stroll and smoke about the stables, and take counsel 
with the veterinary surgeon about a sick horse, and chat with 
neighboring farmers over a promising colt or the breaking-in 
of a kicking filly, were his only resources. It was not for very 
long that Sir Pagan was to be condemned to lead a solitary 
life at Castel Vawr. Clare was soon to have, in Arthur Talbot, 
a protector and a companion for the rest of her days ; and in- 
deed, before two months were over, a very quiet wedding, with- 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


233 

out pomp or glitter or ceremony, and in which the Rector of 
the parish was deemed of sufficient parson power to tie the mar- 
riage-knot, without episcopal or even archidiaconal aid, took 
place in the little church which had witnessed the interrupted 
espousals of the pseudo-Marchioness and Lord Putney. And 
then Arthur Talbot and Clare of Leominster were man and 
wife, and the castle had a new master, and Sir Pagan was free' 
to go back to his bachelor bower in Bruton Street. 

Sir Pagan did not go alone. On one point all Clare’s 
persuasions had failed. Cora Carew was inexorable. In vain 
did the Marchioness plead with the sister who had for a time 
supplanted her to let the past be forgotten, and to live with her, 
cherished and beloved, until such time as she should herself 
marry. 

“ You are very, very kind, my own dear, noble Clare, 
answered the contrite girl ; “ it is like you to wish it, and like 
you to urge it ; but it can never be. I shall be no man’s wife 
now, young as I am. I have worn the bride’s veil and the 
bridal white for the first and last time. Yesterday, I sent to 
Lord Putney a very humble letter, craving his pardon for the 
injury I had been about to do him. He was absurd in some 
respects, but he was honest. I owed him that much of repara- 
tion. Nor ever again shall I look Society in the face. — Yes, I 
forgot,’ she added quickly, and with a sudden light in her sad 
eyes ; “ when I am on my way, as I shall often be, I hope, to 
smooth a sufferer’s pillow and minister by a bed of pain, then 
I may meet the scornful eyes of those who knew me, and not 
be ashamed.” 

Nothing which her sister could say, no entreaty, no argu- 
ment, could make Cora flinch from her purpose. “ No, Clare, 
dearest,” she replied resolutely; “ I see imy road before me 
now clearly ; and' the future with me must help to atone for 
the past. If I was obstinate in wrong, now I shall be stead- 
fast, for my conscience-sake, in what I believe to be right. 
And not even your dear voice can make me swerve from the 
life I have chosen.” 

Cora therefore lives at her brother’s house in Bruton Street 
occupying the same rooms which her sister formerly tenanted, 
and giving up her days and her thoughts to works of mercy. Of 
the three thousand a year which she receives from the bounty of 
the Marchioness, a third, by arrangement, goes to Sir Pagan, 
and thereby greatly lightens the burdens and promotes the 
comfort of that impecunious but well-meaning baronet ; while 
the remainder is expended almost to the fast sixpence, in the 


234 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FATE. 


good works for which a vast city offers only too extended a 
field. In the squalid far East of London, where poverty is 
normal, and the wolf prowls ever at the doors of myriads, 
Cora’s plain little brougham and Cora’s simple attire, and her 
lovely face, thin and careworn now, but with a soft earnestness 
in the blue eyes, are familiar sights. And blessings follow her 
as she goes, for she has lightened many a heavy heart and 
brightened many a desolate hearth. Her only visits are to 
the poor and the afflicted. She has kept her word. Society 
will never again see Cora Carew attempt to take her place in 
its ranks. 

For Madame de Lalouve and her husband, Nemesis, as we 
have already indicated, was waiting. The perfidious are not 
seldom too little on their guard against the possible treachery 
of others. It was so in this case. The confession of a foreign 
partner of theirs in a former crime had turned evidence against 
them, and they were, as we know, apprehended. Their trial 
in Paris shortly followed, and they were both sentenced to a 
period of twenty year’s inprisonment, which sentence, if still 
alive, they are at the present moment working out in one of 
the convict establishments of France. 

There is so much of fraud and so much of folly and of friv- 
olity to mingle with the wholesome tide of life, that it is not 
very likely that Silas Melville, now principal of the Private In- 
quiry Office, will soon find his occupation gone. 

Nurse Dawson’s last years were spent in comfort, thanks to 
the bounty of her former charge the Marchioness, of whom the 
old woman thought and spoke consistently as dear Miss Clare. 
A less interesting person, Mary Ann Pinnett, disappeared 
about the time of the Countess de Lalouve’s apprehension, and 
we have no desire to seek out her whereabouts. 

As a matter of form, the notice of action, was withdrawn ; 
and the case of Leominster, other\vise Carew v. Carew, other- 
wise Leominster, expunged from the assize roll at Marchbury- 
courthouse. The gentlemen of the long-robe of course had 
their retaining fees and their ‘‘refreshers,” to console them for 
loss of an opportunity for forensic display. 

Of Clare and Arthur, loving and beloved, and making a 
wise and noble use of the gifts of fortune, there is not much 
to tell. There are happy homes with . which the chronicler 
feels as if he had no right to meddle, and it may suffice to say 
that never ha.d any reigning Marchioness of. Leominster, been 
so loved and honored by rich and poor around Castel Vawr as 
was Clare, the castle’s bright and beautiful young mistress. 


ONE FALSE, BOTH FAIR. 


^35 

The present Marquis and his wife — ^for Dolly Montgomery has 
at length consented to become a Benedict — are on friendly 
terms there, and even grim Lady Barbara is an occasional 
visitor. 

And Lord Putney ? There were those who thought that 
what had occurred would have been enough to break his with-' 
ered heart, or supposing that organ to be too tough for such a 
catastrophe, would at any rate damp his buoyant spirits. Hd 
did certainly go abroad for a time ; but after a short rustical 
tion in Paris, Nice, Cannes, he reappeared, in the early flush 
of the London season, at his club. The veteran dandy seemed 
impervious to mental distress and unconscious of ridicule.’ 
There he was, tripping as lightly as ever on the points of his 
varnished boots, staring as pertinaciously as ever through his 
gold-rimmed eyeglass, still tapping his enamelled snuff-box, 
and relating his well-worn anecdotes, as of old. “ I really 
don’t think I shall marry, really, now,” was his airy answer to 
a blundering attempt at condolence on the part of some well 
intentioned friend. And perhaps, at his time of life, and after 
the recent shipwreck of his hopes of connubial felicity, his 
lordship’s prospects as a marrying man are nil. 



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LOVELL’S LIBRARYz-CATALOGUE. 


113. More Words About the Bible, 

by Rev. Jas. S. Bush 20 

114. Monsieur Lecoq, GaboriauPt.I..20 

'Monsieur Leeoq, Pt. II 20 

115. An Outline of Irish History, by 

Justin H, McCarthy 10 

116. TheLeroiige Case, by Gabor iau.. 20 

117. Paul Clifford, by Lord Lytton. . .20 

118. A New Lease of Life, by About.. 20 

119. Bourbon Lilies 20 

120. Other People s Money, Gaboriau.20 

121. The Lady of Lyons, Lytton... 10 

122. Ameline de Bourg 15 

123. A Sea Queen, by W. Russell 20 

124. The Ladies Lindores, by Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

125. Haunted Hearts, by Simpson. ...10 

126. Loys, Lord Beresford, by The 

Duchess .’. 20 

127. Under Two Flags, Ouida, Pt. I.. 15 

Under Two Flags, Ft. II 15 

128. Money, by Lord Lytton 10 

129. In Peril of His Life, by Gaboriau.20 

130. India, by Max Muller ..... .20 

131. Jets an d Flashes 20 

132. Moonshine and Marguerites, by 

The Duchess 10 

133. Mr. Scarborough’s Family, by 

Anthony Trollope, Part I 15 

Mr ScaroorouglvsFamily, PtII 15 
1.34, Arden, by A. Mary F. Robinson. 15 
135! The Tower of Percemont.. ....20 

1.36. Yolande, by Wm. Black 20 

137. Cruel London, by Joseph Hatton, 20 
i.38'. The Gilded Clique, by Gaboriau.20 
1.39.* Pike County Folks, E, H. Mott. .20 

140. Cricket on the Hearth 10 

141. Henry Esmond, by Thackeray. .20 

142. Strange Adventures of a Phae- 

ton, by Wm. Black ...20, 

143. Denis Duval, by Thackeray 10 

144. Old Curiosity Shop,Dickens,PtI.15 
Old Curiosity Shop, Part II. . . .15 

145. Ivanhoe, by Scott, Parti 15 

Ivanboe, 'by Scott, Part II 15 

146. White Wings, by Wm. Black. .20 

147. The Sketch Book, by Irving 20 

143. Catherine, by W. M Thackeray.lO 
149. Janet’s Repentance, by Eliot;... 10 
15o! Barnaby Rudge, Dickens, Ptl,.15 

Barnaby Rudge, Part II .15 

151 Felix Holt, by George Eliot. . 20 

152’. Richelieu, by Lord Lytton 10 

153. Sunrise, by Wm, Black, Part I. . 15 
Sunrise, by Wm. Black, Part 11.15 
1.54. Tour of the World in 80 Days.. 20 
1.55 Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau. . . .20 

156. LoveL 'the Widower, by W, M. 

Thackeray 10 

157. Romantic Adventures of A Milk- 

maid, by Thomas Hardy 10 

158 David Copperfield, Dickens, Pt 1.20 
David Copperfield, Part II . 20 

160. liienzi, by Lord Lytton, Part I. .15 
Ri#nzi, by Lord Lytton, Part II. 15 

161. Promise of Marriage, Gaboriau.. 10 

162. Faith and XJnfaith, by The 

Duchess -.80 


163. 

164. 
165» 
166, 

167. 

168. 

169. 

ITO. 

171. 

172. 

173. 

174. 

175 

176 

177. 

178. 

179. 

180. 
181. 
182, 

183. 

184. 

185. 


186. 

187. 

188. 

189. 

190. 

191 . 

192 . 

193. 

194. 

195. 

196. 

197. 

198. 

199. 


200 . 

201 . 


202 . 

203. 

204, 

205, 

206. 
207, 

20a 


The Happy Man, by Lover... 10 

Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray 90 

Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

Twenty Thousand Leagues Un- 
der theBca, by Jules Verne. ... .90 
Anti-Slavery Days, by James 

Freeman Clarke 20 

Beauty’s Daughters, by The 

Duchess 20 

Beyond the Sunrise 20 

Hard Times, by Charles Dicken8.20 
Tom Cringle’s Log, bvM. Scott.. 20 
Vanity Fair, by W.M.Thackeray.20 
Underground Russia, Stepniak. .20 
Middlemarch, by Elliot, Pt I... .20 

Middlemarch, Part II.. 20 

Sir Tom, by Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Pelham, by Lord Lytton. 20 

The Story of Ida 10 

Madcap Violet, by Wm. Black.. 20 

The Little Pilgrim 10 

Kiimeny, by Wm. Black. 20 

Whist, or Bumblepuppy? 10 

The Beautiful Wretch, Black 20 

Her Mother’s Sin, by B, M. Clay.20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly, 

by Wm. Black 20 

The Mysterious Island, by Jules 

Verne, Part 1 15 

The Mysterious Island, Part II. .15 
The Mysterious Island, Part III. 15 
Tom Brown at Oxford, Part I. . .15 
Tom Brown at Oxiord, Part II. .15 
Thicker than Water, by J. Payn.20 
In Silk Attire, by Wm. Black. . .20 
Scottish Chiefs.Jane Porter, Pt.I.20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II .,20 

Willy Reilly, by Will Carleton. .20 
The Nautz Family, by Shelley .20 
Great Expectations, by Dicken8.20 
Pendennis,by Thackeray, Part 1.20 
Pendenni8,by Thackeray, Part 11,20 

Widow Bedott Papers 20 

Daniel Deronda,Qeo. Eliot, Pt. 1.20 

Daniel Deronda, Part II 20 

AltioraPeto, by Oliphant.’ 20 

By the Gate of the Sea, by David 

Christie Murray .15 

Tales of a Traveller, by Irving, . .20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 
by Washington Irving, Parti. .20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 
by Washington Irving, Part 11.20 

The Pilgrim’s Progress . . 20 

Martin' Chuzzlewit, by Charles 

Dickens, Part 1 20 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Part II 20 

Theophrastus Such, Geo. Eliot. . .20 
Disarmed, M. Betham-Edwards..l5 
Eugene Aram, by Lord Lytton. 20 
The Spanish Gypsy and Other 

Poems, by George Eliot 20 

Cast Up by the Sea. Baker 20 

Mill on the Floss, Eliot, Pt. I. ..15 

Mill on the Floss, Part II 15 

Brother Jacob, and Mr. Gilfil’s 
Love Story, by George Eliot. . .10 
Wrecks In the Sea of Life 20 


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